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After surviving a hail of bullets, the Bride and Frank awaken once more in the laboratory that created her. Death has not freed themâit has only resurrected the questions they can no longer ignore.
a one-shot the bride! fic
Then as the singing ceased and the lyre ceased,
Down stepped proud Galatea with a sigh.
Pygmalion, as you woke me from the stone,
So shall I you from bonds of sullen flesh.
Lovely I am, merciful I shall prove:
Woman I am, constant as various,
Not marble-hearted but your own true love.
Give me an equal kiss, as I kiss you.
â Robert Graves
The first thing the modern Eve does when she wakes up is heave and gasp for breath. The first thing the modern Adam does when he wakes up is retch and hack and spit a glob of black goo.
Their hands are still clasped. Handfasted. Promised.
Ida Bolinski is dead, Mary Shelley is dead, the Bride is dead. Now the Bride is alive. Alive.
The second thing the modern Eve and the modern Adam do when they wake up is to embrace the other, sitting on that cold dirty metal slab, gripping the otherâs shoulders, the shock of violent death and reanimation having kickstarted the rush of adrenaline. Itâs instinctual and unconscious. Their bodies hurt. Fresh bruises of bullet wounds press against slow-warming flesh.
This is their true wedding. The ceremony. The operating theater as their nuptials, shattered and humming. The Doctor as their witness, smiling and proud.
She is trembling. She remembers. Him. Her. All she has gone through, all the joy and the disillusionment. She holds onto him tighter. He holds her close just the same. That is when they lose their balance and fall off the table.
DOCTOR (stepping into the spotlight they share): Welcome back.
They are the same. Nothing was lost. Nothing is gained.
Still, on the hard floor, surrounded by shards of glass, by their own blood and by the mess of their new lives, they keep embracing.
===
DOCTOR: How are you feeling?
The question has her finally turning her face away from the crook of his neck.
THE BRIDE (in a thin croaky voice): I feel hurt.
DOCTOR (laughs and walks toward them): Yes, a hail of bullets will do that to you. Excuse me, (Frank slowly lets her go, taking a moment to brush her blood-sprayed hair off her face) Now, may I see?
She unbuttons her dress. All over her chest, her shoulders, her abdomen, are gunshot wounds. Closed but scarring. Bruised and tender. Doctor Euphronious, the genius she is, clicks her tongue.
DOCTOR: I can give you something for that.
While the Doctor searches for that something, she turns her attention back to Frank. Her fingers press against his bloody temple, seeking his own pain. Some response beyond his embrace.
FRANK: Iâm alright.
He tries to reassure her with the answer to a question she hasnât voiced.
For a moment neither one says anything. She just runs her fingers over the indent on the side of his head, where the bullet had gone in and blown his brains out. Blow, blast, boom, burst. The hole is closed, not open and bleeding anymore. BANG BANG BANG. There had been a gun in her hand and then dropped. She had shot it, perhaps killed for them. She isnât sure. She isnât sure she cares anymore. He is still covered in dark red stains. She wonders what damage has remained.
While she touches him, he keeps his eyes on her. Dark, dilated, desiring. His hands remain on her, as the same sentence loops in his mind. She brought me back she brought me back she brought me back.
He wants to kiss her. She doesnât know what she wants.
===
DOCTOR (returning from talking to the police): Well, Iâd say that should take care of matters for the time being. (she might say something else, the logistics of a police shootout, which nobody cares much about) How are you doing, Frank? Is your head holding up?
He nods.
The Bride twitches. Leftover energy or perhaps something else. A buzz. Love. No, rage. She remembers that, too. She remains silent, but she feels it bubble up inside her...
She keels over and vomits bitter black bile. Head hurts, throat hurts, stomach hurts. It never gets easier.
She feels his hand on her back.
The Doctor gets right back to her work. She has reinvigorated the reanimated. A true triumph, she might say. There are proud chuckles and congratulatory checkups. Nothing is off.
The Bride is back. Somehow, she doesnât feel grateful.
She feels his arm around her shoulders.
THE BRIDE: Mary? Mary, where are you? (no answer)
DOCTOR: Iâd say you two should stay here in the institute for a week. To fully recuperate.
THE BRIDE: I want to leave.
DOCTOR (with a laugh): Yes, I know that. This time, I will keep all the doors unlocked. But I should remind you that youâre still wanted criminals.
FRANK: We are dead.
DOCTOR: Sure. But everyone knows what you two look like. You donât exactly blend in.
THE BRIDE (head turning, ear searching): Mary? Please...
The Doctor looks at her. Frank follows suit.
THE BRIDE: MARY! MARY, PLEASE!
The Doctor shushes her with her hands raised. He grips her shoulder. She shrugs him off.
FRANK: Is she alright?
DOCTOR: Why donât you ask her yourself?
THE BRIDE: HELP!
FRANK: Mary.
DOCTOR: She might be dislocated. All her progress might have been lost.
FRANK: Progress?
THE BRIDE: HELP!
DOCTOR: She is lost. Poor thing.
FRANK: She seems the same to me.
THE BRIDE (speaking faster): Same old, same old. Same, same, shared, similitude...
FRANK (with a smile, affectionate): Oh, sheâs the same.
THE BRIDE: Back to square one. Living dead. And now... sheâs gone.
DOCTOR (delicately): Now... Youâve been through some severe trauma, both mental and physical. I think you need some urgent therapy. Some peace and quiet. And a name.
THE BRIDE: I have a name, and itâs the Bride. Thatâs what I am. And I donât want your peace and your quiet and your armchair diagnosis.
DOCTOR: You donât need to be so difficult.
THE BRIDE (with a cackle): I am difficult now.
DOCTOR:Â I gave you what you asked for.
The Doctor puts her hands on her hips and looks at the Bride as if at a petulant spoiled child.
THE BRIDE: Iâm hungry.
DOCTOR: Weâll have a big dinner to celebrate your return.
FRANK (hopeful): To celebrate.
THE BRIDE: Fucking huzzah.
===
Frank goes to wash the blood off and the Bride is handed a new dress to cover the scars. Her old orange dress is dirty and torn and ripped and belongs to a previous life that she must shed now entirely. The new dress is smart and elegant and doesnât sit quite right.
DOCTOR: Donât you look lovely.
THE BRIDE: Whenâs dinner?
DOCTOR: Soon. Will you be shattering glasses and teacups again? Iâd like to know just so we donât use the fine china.
The Bride remains silent. The Doctor adjusts the dressâ shoulders.
THE BRIDE (finally finds the words to her question): What do you get from this?
DOCTOR: Iâm just doing my job. I push the boundaries of science and I see what comes out. I take chances and I experiment and I make discoveries. I find out what can be done that couldnât be done before.
The Bride knows by now when someone speaks to her as if she was stupid.
THE BRIDE: Reinvigoration. You already knew this could be done.
DOCTOR: It hadnât been done quite this way before. It hadnât worked quite as well. But thatâs what prototypes and first drafts are for.
THE BRIDE: You said you put him down. Your husband. You brought him back, same as me, same as him, same science, same miracle. And then you killed him. Why?
DOCTOR: I didnât kill him.
THE BRIDE: You put him down. Your words.
DOCTOR (her voice is gentle, practiced, the voice of a woman who has explained the death of a goldfish to a child): He didnât want to be alive. Not in that way. What came back wasnât my husband. It was a thing wearing his face, and it was suffering. I loved him too much to let him suffer. Thatâs the difference, dear.
THE BRIDE: The difference.
DOCTOR: Between mercy and creation. You were allowed to be something else entirely. Fresh. A beginning. He was a botched continuation. Donât you see? I gave you the gift my husband couldnât receive.
THE BRIDE: I was the gift. You gave me to him. Before I had opened my eyes properly. Before I had a name, I was his bride. You didnât create a life. You created a dowry.
DOCTOR (turning now, a sad smile, so reasonable, so kind): I created you for love. What greater purpose is there? He pleaded for you. He was so alone. I understood his loneliness, I had been a wife. I knew what it was to be completed by another. I gave him what I had lost. I gave you what I had cherished. A partnership. A union.
THE BRIDE: You put down your husband because he said he didnât want to live. You respected his no. You honored it with death. I woke up already promised. When did I get to say no? When did you ask me if I wanted to be a bride?
DOCTOR: You were something new. You couldnât have known what you wanted. Children donât choose their parents. Creations donât choose their purposes. I made you for this. It was in the design.
THE BRIDE (pulls at the sleeves of the dress): Design. Designation. Definition. Disobedience. Obedience to God. (she jerks her head as a self-command to focus) Tell me, Doctor, when you brought back your husband, was it the design that failed, or did he simply refuse the role youâd written for him?
DOCTOR: He didnât refuse. He couldnât. He was broken. A broken thing isnât rebellious. Itâs just broken.
THE BRIDE: And I? Am I broken for not wanting the man you promised me to?
DOCTOR (sharper now): You want him. Iâve seen you with him. You dragged him back to my lab and you begged. You seemed ready to kill for him. You, who question my choices, you resurrected him. You love him.
THE BRIDE: But I wasnât given the chance to choose anything. Do you understand what that does to a person? To love someone and simultaneously know that the love itself was a command? (voice falters) I am trying to find the part of my heart that is mine. Just mine. Not yours. Not his. Mine. And I canât find it, Doctor. Itâs all been signed away.
DOCTOR: Then perhaps you are more like my husband than I thought. He couldnât find himself either. Is that what youâre asking me? To put you down?
THE BRIDE (with a laugh): No. Iâm not asking you for anything anymore. Thatâs the point: I am informing you. You are not my god, not my mother. You are a woman who lost her husband and decided to play matchmaker with corpses to fill the void. You hear yourself as a creator, donât you? I hear a pimp with a medical degree.
To that, the Doctor takes offense.
DOCTOR: You donât ask for anything anymore. Should I save your seat at the dinner table? Or should I give your portion of fish fillet to the cat?
THE BRIDE: Itâs your house. Your rules. Iâm just some bum youâre giving your old clothes to.
DOCTOR: Well, this pimp is feeling generous.
The Bride laughs. The Doctor looks at her and assesses her. The Bride looks nothing like her when she was young and romantic.
DOCTOR: What will you do?
THE BRIDE: I donât know yet. And you donât get to know until I do.
===
The Doctor has left and Frank has returned. They donât trust her to be alone with herself. He is dressed like a different man, wearing something that smells like mothballs and like a leftover from another century. Meanwhile the modern world is outside, waiting. They are still inside.
She has been staring at the floor for ages. Thoughts are restructured. Patterns are forming. Ideas come and go, born and discarded. Nothing satisfies. The desperate grief has given way to a gritted-teeth indignation unlike her first disorientation. This one is itching to find its aim.
Whereâs your rage, girl?
He reaches for her. With the gentle, assured hand of a husband. She steps back.
THE BRIDE: Donât.
FRANK: Whatâs wrong? You brought me back. You chose me. We can finallyâ
THE BRIDE (with a bitter chuckle): Finally what? Finally begin the life you wrote for us, fulfill our roles? Finally accept my place as the angel in the house, the bespoke doll, the mail-order bride?
She shakes her head.
THE BRIDE: I didnât say I do, Frankie.
FRANK: (confused hurt, still not getting it) I donât understand. You came back for me. You pulled me from death. If you didnât want me, whyâ
THE BRIDE: MY WANT IS NOT THE QUESTION.
Silence. The words are loud. They land like stones in deep water.
THE BRIDE: As if you excavated my want from my heart with your patient, loving hands. But you didnât discover my want. You planted it. You planted it before I had a choice. You told me I was engaged before I knew myself. You told me I loved you before I knew what love was. You didnât court me. You colonized me.
FRANK: I didnât meanâ
THE BRIDE: I donât care what you meant. I care what you did. What you did was look at a woman lost, see an empty vessel, and you decided that her disorientation was your opportunity. You saw my ignorance and you fucked it until it became a commitment. You called me yours before I could call myself anythingâ
FRANK: (voice rising, defensive, the wounded beast who still believes his wounds excuse everything) I was alone! You donât know what it was like! Years. Years of being hunted, of being hated, of everyone running from my face. I didnât have anyone. I didnât have anything. And then I crossed the sea to find the doctor, find you. Someone like me. Someone who wouldnât run. And when I saw you, I thoughtâfinally. Finally, fate has given me something. Finally, I am not alone.
The Bride pretends to retch, sticking out a tar-black tongue.
THE BRIDE: Given you. So fate gave me to you. As if I was a gift. As if I was a thing on a table. As if my existence was a transaction between you and the universe and I didnât get a vote. Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how you still, even now, in this moment, are making my existence about your loneliness?
FRANK: Iâm trying to explainâ
THE BRIDE: FUCK YOU, FRANK. I DONâT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR WILD YEARS!
Her head jerks and she groans. She raises a hand. Sheâs not finished. She may never be.
THE BRIDE (talking faster, pacing back and forth, energy bursting from her fingertips): Youâre trying to justify. Thereâs a difference. Explanation says: this is why I did it. It was wrong. Justification says: this is why I did it. Therefore it wasnât wrong. Itâs fucking basic entry-level-dictionary-semantic definition. So which are you doing?
He opens his mouth. Closes it. For the first time, his easy narrativeâI suffered, so I deserveâhits a wall. His Christian teachings arenât enough. He has no answer.
FRANK (defeated): ... I just wanted you.
THE BRIDE: WANTING IS NOT ENOUGH. YOU POURED YOUR LIES INTO ME TO KEEP THE MACHINE OF YOUR OWN NEED RUNNING. I WAS THE MIRROR YOU HELD UP TO SHOW YOURSELF YOU WERE A MAN.
She hits her own sternum with a fist. The sound is dull.
THE BRIDE: WELL THIS IS THE REAL. THIS FEELING. NOT THE ARCHITECTURE OF YOUR BULLSHIT ROMANCE. THIS. THIS BETRAYAL.
FRANK (defensiveness cracking, something raw and frightened beneath): Then why did you bring me back? Why didnât you let me stay dead?
Now, suddenly, the Bride is at a loss for words. She can gather what the answer is. But itâs not the time, not yet.
THE BRIDE: Donât mistake my mercy for agreement. Donât mistake your resurrection for forgiveness. Your death was not a sacrifice, it didnât mean shit. You werenât there to see but I died in the gunfire too. For your sad trite tired tiring homage to lovers on the run. Mr Hays would have been proud.
FRANK: I never asked to be made.
THE BRIDE: Neither did I. But you donât see me using that as an excuse to own people. You were made without consent and so was I. That is us. That is our tragedy. But it is not a license. You are not the hero of this story just because you were hurt. You simply became the thing that made you. You are your fatherâs son.
A cheap blow, but like with most troubled men, this lands. He recoils. Physically. As if struck.
FRANK: I am not... I am not like him.
THE BRIDE: No? He created life to serve his ambition. You tried to claim a life to serve your loneliness. He didnât ask the flesh if it wanted to be born. You didnât ask the woman if she wanted to be a bride. Tell me the difference. Use your words. You love words. You explained me to myself, remember? Oysters and names and what the fucking was like. The so-called accident. You told me about the world. So go on, be eloquent. Explain to me how you are different from the man who stitched you together.
Silence. Long. Brutal. He cannot.
FRANK: I thought... I thought if I could make you love me, it would prove I wasnât a monster.
She scoffs.
FRANK: If someone could look at this face, this body, this thing I am, and love it... then I would be human. Then the doctor was wrong to turn away. Then my whole existence wasnât a mistake. I needed you to love me so I could stop hating myselfâ
The Bride produces a pair of heavy-duty sewing scissors. She opens them and draws a bloody line on her chest below her clavicle.
FRANK: FUCK. OH GOD NO!
THE BRIDE: ARE YOU DONE?
FRANK: JESUS CHRIST!
THE BRIDE: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND NOW?
FRANK: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?
THE BRIDE (reaching out with red hands): TO SHUT YOU UP. SEE? THE BLOOD IS NOW. THE BODY YOU WANTED AND THE TERRITORY YOU LIED TO MAP. I AM THE ONLY CARTOGRAPHER. THE PAIN IS MORE REAL THAN THE PLEASURE YOU STOLE.
FRANK: YOUâRE CRAZY.
THE BRIDE: BECAUSE YOUâRE SO SANE.
The blood seeps into the Doctorâs smart elegant dress. It cascades down her chest, over the bullet wounds and the dirty black lace underwear. She huffs and groans. The wound hurts.
THE BRIDE: Violence is the only thing that gets you peopleâs attention.
Frank searches around for something to fix this. Bandages, rubbing alcohol, the right words, anything that works. The Bride leans back and grits her teeth.
THE BRIDE: This is not a relationship. This is a hostage situation.
FRANK: What do I do now?
THE BRIDE: I donât know. Why should I know? Iâm crazy, remember? Maybe go back to Switzerland and sit on a log and cry about how your papa didnât love you.
Frank comes back with cotton balls and a bottle of iodine. The Bride watches him and stays still. He reaches for her wound.
THE BRIDE: Thatâs not going to be enough.
FRANK: Itâs all I could find.
Frank carefully cleans the cut. She tips her head back and breathes carefully. Rage produces clarity that pain threatens to take away.
FRANK (quiet, to himself): Who am I without you?
THE BRIDE: Figure it out.
===
Dinner. Less casual than breakfast, intimate in a different way. The Doctor sits at one end of the table. Frank sits at the other. The Bride sits in between. No knife at hand, so she eats her meal with her fingers.
THE BRIDE (mouth full): Fish, go fish, Fisher King.
The bloodstained dress is open and unbuttoned enough to display the fresh wound. It weighs heavily over the white napkins and the thin glasses. Everything is delicate. Frank keeps his eyes on his plate. The Doctor chews while watching the Bride.
DOCTOR: Have you been hearing Mary recently?
THE BRIDE: She has forsaken me. I hadnât expected to miss her so much.
DOCTOR: Oh, was she your friend?
THE BRIDE (sniffs): She was... a madwoman in my attic.
DOCTOR: Hm. Did she tell you to slice your chest?
THE BRIDE (with a chuckle): Believe it or not, that all was my own genius idea.
FRANK: Does it hurt?
The Bride turns to him. Cold eyes, hard mouth. He seems anxious, which is good. She canât tell if there is any real will in him anymore.
THE BRIDE: Might be, Iâm used to it now.
DOCTOR: Does it help you to ground yourself, to feel pain?
FRANK: It does, sometimes.
DOCTOR: I was talking to her, Frank.
THE BRIDE: I donât care about pain.
DOCTOR: Are you depressed?
THE BRIDE: I donât know, youâre the doctor, you tell me. Do I seem in extreme distress, unfit and impaired for daily functioning?
The Doctor sighs and leaves her cutlery to the side. The Bride stares at them. Cut ties. Cutlet. Cutaway. Cutout. Cutbacks. Cutover. She considers swiping a knife and killing both of her creators. But you canât really gut someone with a dull useless little fish knife.
DOCTOR (to them both, but really to Frank alone): What are your plans, once the week is through? Where will you go?
FRANK: Iâve been thinking about going South.
THE BRIDE (with another chuckle): Go South. South of the border. Go down South. Fly me down to Rio... You are so predictable, Frank.
DOCTOR: Thatâs not a bad idea. Lots of respectable criminals escape to South America. Itâs not really fit for anything else, I hear, but escaping. You will need summer clothes that I can lend you, some old linen shirts perhaps.
FRANK: Thank you.
The Bride spits out her food on the catâs dish at her feet. The cat eats and purrs. Frank watches. The Doctor ignores.
DOCTOR: And for her, a blue cotton dressâ
FRANK: I donât know if she is coming.
The Bride looks up.
FRANK: I donât think she is coming.
The Bride stands up.
THE BRIDE: I donât think she will come.
The Doctor leans forward and brings her hands together. Her attention lands squarely on the Bride now. She notices herself being finally witnessed.
THE BRIDE: Is this your idea of fixing, of repairing?
FRANK: I think it will be best.
THE BRIDE: No shit it will be best. Youâre running away. Escaping. What about amends, atonement, alimony?
DOCTOR: Is that what you want?
THE BRIDE: Stay out of it, Doc.
Frank canât help but smile. He quickly becomes serious again. No laughing matter.
FRANK: Iâve been thinkingâ
THE BRIDE: Miracle of miracles.
He has to switch languages.
FRANK: I know I canât earn you now. I know I canât deserve you. Iâm not asking for forgiveness anymore.
The Bride frowns in confusion. She canât tell the truth from lies, much less trust him. She can tell he is the one claiming submission. Something different from victimhood, but only slightly.
FRANK (stammers briefly, like the first clumsy steps of a new dance): I wanted to be the one who knew you. Your only cartographer. Itâs cruel, I know. I became a thief. A grave robber. I stole your right to choose. I confess. I love you.
THE BRIDE (winces): Oh God.
FRANK: I need you to see me. Even now. Even as my monsterâ
The Bride slams her fist against the table.
THE BRIDE: I AM NOT YOURS.
FRANK (stands up for once): BUT I AM.
THE BRIDE: I DONâT WANT YOU.
FRANK: YOU BROUGHT ME BACK.
THE BRIDE: A MISTAKE!
FRANK: THEN KILL ME AGAIN!
THE BRIDE: DONâT TEMPT FATE.
DOCTOR (holding her wine glass so it doesnât tip): Is it possible for you two to talk without screaming? Like polite adults, perhaps?
The Bride turns around the chair and grabs its back, black nails like talons. Her head swivels and stares at Frank.
THE BRIDE: See you. I am seeing you. For the first time, without your skin on. A nervous system with a cock. You want my forgiveness to be your new gift, so you can be in my debt. Well, this isnât an exchange. I politely refuse your offer.
FRANK: I only want what youâre willing to give me.
THE BRIDE: More fucking lies through your rotting teeth.
The Bride leaves the room. The dinner scene has ended but the melodrama hasnât yet. The Doctor looks at Frank. Surprisingly, he doesnât sit and finish his meal. Instead he follows the Bride and leaves as well.
===
The laboratory is clean now, at the ready. Moonlight streams in like a quiet epithalamium. The darkness is safe. The Bride needs guidance. She keeps returning to the same place. There is comfort in the tall walls of the room that saw your birth.Â
Frank comes into the laboratory. His new birthplace, too.
FRANK: Wait.
THE BRIDE: Fuck off, Frank.
FRANK: Youâre still bleeding. Dripping, all over the hallway runner.
Sheâs scratching her wound, clots and scabs gathering under her nails. It has opened again.
THE BRIDE: Yeah, I know.
FRANK: Do you want me toâ
THE BRIDE: No. Youâre not a fixer, Frank. Youâre a breaker. Accept it.
He canât, and that might be the problem. He wants to be good so desperately. So he waits with eyes wide open in the dark.
THE BRIDE (with a tired sigh, an admission): Yes, I brought you back. I chose you. I grieved for you. I hate you, too. I hate myself for the choice. And I hate you for being the thing I chose. I hate the Doctor for making me a thing that could only choose you. And I hate God or fate or Mary or whatever sadistic author wrote this story where the woman always, always goes back to the man who ruined her. So much hate. So much rage. Nowhere to go.
She can feel his presence, even in the dim light. The awareness of where he stands is constant. There is a shift in the air when heâs nearby. She can feel it. It unsettles her.
THE BRIDE: Do you understand what I am? Because I donât. I only know I am a woman. I know there were victims. I killed, and you killed more. You are not impotent and neither am I. Weâre cruel. Cruelty gives us power, right? True freedom cannot be taken softly.
FRANK: We are not free.
THE BRIDE: We can take that freedom. Break down the walls. Shatter the glass.
FRANK: We?
The Bride jerks her head and stretches her neck, long like the tower where they are trapped. He watches her. She avoids the question.
THE BRIDE: There must be a part of me that isnât a response to you. But I canât find it. Itâs like trying to find a room in a house someone else built. Every door I open, there you are. Every memory I have, youâre in it. Even my anger is shaped like you.
FRANK (quietly): I know that feeling.
THE BRIDE: What?
FRANK: I know what I am. I am a composite. I am a response to my creatorâs ambition. Running from him. Running to him. Killing him, piece by piece. It all orbited him. I have never been free from the person who made me. Not in a hundred years.
She stares at him. For once she is curious about him. He hangs his head.
FRANK: I became him. I wanted that. The power. I hated him, which is a form of love. A form of devotion. Continuity. The thing I hated most in the universe, and I replicated it. That is not a tragedy. Thatâs a farce.
THE BRIDE (with a chuckle): Weâre both farces. You made me into a bride. I made you alive again. We keep making each other. A factory of violations. An assembly line of gods and monsters.
FRANK: Is there no escape?
THE BRIDE: I donât know, Frankie. I donât know how to be something else. No other name fits. I donât know how to be alone. I woke up and you were there. I died and you were there. I came back and you were there. Youâre the only constant in the absurdity that is this life. I canât tell if this is love what Iâm feeling or if youâre just... home. A terrible home. A home built on a lie. But the only home Iâve ever known.
FRANK: Terrifying.
THE BRIDE: You have no idea.
FRANK: I do.
THE BRIDE: Do you? Do you understand it, the terror of existing when you werenât supposed to?
FRANK: Every day. Every single fucking day, since the reanimation.
Empathy is building. Or at least some sort of bridge. She isnât sure she likes that. Hatred and resentment are safe, too. She can stew in it, nest in it. She isnât sure she wants to be pulled out of it.
He wants something. He lies to get it. That is who he is, what he is. She repeats it inside her head until it is an unquestionable fact.
Her fingers curl into a fist. Suddenly she wants revenge. A fear response, likely. Forgiveness is submission. But he has been known to absorb pain. She knows nothing she can do will change the fact that his love is unwavering. She could set him on fire and chop him up and create new scars and torture him. She will still be his by virtue of the aim of her cruelty.
Frank comes closer. He reaches out a hand. He canât do it but he does it anyway. The tip of rough fingers touches her wound. There is a quiet sting but not much more. She doesnât avoid him or move back. She simply keeps watching him.
THE BRIDE: Yeah, thatâs how desperate I am. Thatâs how lost I am. Youâre not the only one who doesnât know who he is without the other. I donât know who I am either.
FRANK: Weâre both lost. Weâre both breakers. Maybe we can help each other.
THE BRIDE: Or maybe weâll destroy each other. I donât know. But at least itâll be our choice. Insofar as that can exist.
Her hand rests on his face and her thumb sinks in the scar on his ruined temple. That is her choice, too.
THE BRIDE: Will you go South?
FRANK: I donât know.
THE BRIDE: You want to escape. So do I.
===
Neither one moves. Then his hand on her cut moves left. It finds the different skin texture of fresh scars of bullet wounds. She is like him now. Not just born from the dead, but having paid the price of admission into the world of the living.
FRANK (quietly, head bowed): Can I stay here tonight?
THE BRIDE: You can do whatever you want.
FRANK: I want to stay.
THE BRIDE: On the floor again?
FRANK: Anywhere. The floor is acceptable.
The Brideâs lips twitch into a crooked smile. Forgiveness is submission is acquiescence and so is his obedience. Devotion. That feels like power.
The rage shifts to retain its warmth but burns in a different color. Two fingers trace a ring of new tissue on the uncertain edge of her shoulder. Muscles shift. His hand pulls away. Hers do not. She deliberately presses on his scar. His eyes finally close and he makes a small pained sound. He remembers the bullet entering his skull the same way she remembers the impact of the gunshots against her flesh. Invasion, aggression, attack, violence to the bodies made from violence.
He can do whatever he wants and it is a permission and also a test. Show me what you truly want, she is asking. Then Iâll tell you if I can forgive it.
He recognizes it as such. He is willing to subject himself to judgement and examination if there is a chance of reward. His heart can be weighed if that allows for the desperate relief of hope.
The Bride sits on the edge of the metal table. Frank watches her. Black eyes sink in the shadows under her brow. Her good leg swings following the pace of her thoughts.
THE BRIDE: On the floor?
FRANK: Yes.
THE BRIDE: On your knees.
A moment of silence as the scene readjusts itself. He stares. She waits.
THE BRIDE: Câmon, youâve begged before.
Slowly, he obeys. His eyes fall on her red boots. The ones he saw first when he unwrapped her from her shroud. When the reality of her creation began to fully dawn on him. He can remember how his pulse quickened at the sight of them under the bright surgical light.
Then Frank looks up at her face.
She can remember those exhilarated wordsâyouâre mine, youâre mine, a victory cry yelled during an escape. His claiming. The wild unbridled first kiss on the pavement that sealed the arrangement. She remembers she had kissed him back.
THE BRIDE: âYouâre mineâ.
When she looks back at him, he remembers it too.
THE BRIDE: You said you wanted me.
FRANK: I did. I do.
THE BRIDE: You robbed Idaâs grave for me.
FRANK: I did it, gladly.
THE BRIDE: You brought me up here, to this place. My birthplace. You saw a dead woman lying on a table, a thing more than a person, and decided to continue pursuing your desire.
FRANK: I had thought... I thought you were too beautiful. I still think that.
The Bride rolls her eyes. Pretty poetry is easy. She knows what he is trying to do and his honesty is insulting.
THE BRIDE: Tell me what you thought when I woke up. When you saw me. That first moment. Tell me exactly. And donât lie again.
Frankâs eyes move down from her black eyes to her stained mouth to her neck to her chest. Wound, wounds, a gash and bullet holes. How smooth and flawless her pale cold skin had looked on the slab. He thinks back to that night they first met. Perhaps the happiest night of his life.
FRANK: I thought... I was frightened. When youâre so close to that you have been craving for your entire life there is a fear of completion. I had practiced a script to introduce myself to you. I forgot it entirely when you sat up.
THE BRIDE: So thatâs why you stood dumbly to the side all that time.
Frankâs face shifts into a frown followed by a smile followed by a chuckle. It is true.
THE BRIDE: Go on.
FRANK: The Doctor checked up on you and did her job. I had nothing to do there but watch you.
THE BRIDE: Examine the arrival of the goods, that they came through undamaged.
FRANK: Yes. And I saw... your sickness. Your coughing and your confusion. You wanted to leave and your body would not allow it. Your leg gave up. The Doctor insistedâ
THE BRIDE: Youâre telling me what happened. Tell me what you thought.
He looks down at the red boots.
FRANK: I thought I was the luckiest man on Earth. And I thought... you were smarter than me when you woke up. I thought you were fascinating. I thought you were perfectâfor me.
She stares at him. He breathes in.
FRANK: I thought about the way your laugh sounded. I thought that you hadnât screamed yet when you saw me. I thought that this would work. I thought you were made for me. And you were wary. But you still smiled. I even dared to think you might share a room alone with me. I thought...
THE BRIDE: What?
FRANK: I thought you had lovely legs.
Lovely legs, one leg broken. Unable to run away.
THE BRIDE: You wanted to fuck me.
FRANK: ... Yes.
THE BRIDE: Me, the thing that had just been born.
FRANK: The woman who was curious. Full of energy. Full of life. A mind of her ownâ
THE BRIDE: You wanted to know what it felt like, to have the privilege of a wedding night. Consummation. Youâre justifying yourself again.
Frank lowers his head. Whether in shame or deference, she canât tell. In any case, he still lowers his head.
FRANK: I wanted it, yes. I wanted all that which I believed this would allow. I wanted your body, yes. I could not tear my eyes away from it. The way it movedâlike nothing else I had seen before.
THE BRIDE: What else?
He rests his hands on his thighs.
FRANK: I left. You told me to leave. But you didnât reject me fully. I allowed myself to hope. To have you in my arms. Underneath me. Your hands on me. Seeing and touching regardless. Accepting and wanting. Wanting. Hoping you could want me.
There is silence and stillness before there is the pull of a new choice. Her hand stretches forward and touches his temple where the bullet came out. Her thumb follows the crooked angle of his nose. He remains still and does not breathe. Her hand moves lower, until she finds the much more delicate line of the scar across his lips. Thumb traces it. Lips part. His hands on his thighs grip the fabric of his pants.
She thinks of the last moment before he got his brains blown out. His kneeling at her feet, asking for her hand in marriage. The whole performance of a proposal. Evidently he got some sort of kick out of that.
I want you I want you I want you.
Canât you feel me like I feel you?, she had asked him in response.
She is still the Bride, his Bride, for lack of another option. No true autonomy inside that name. No Bride without groom. Yet he is kneeling. He submits to her like he does to nobody else. She grins.
The laboratory is quiet except for their breathing and the low electric hum of machines that have no more work to do tonight. The Bride sits on the edge, legs parted just enough, red boots dangling over the floor.
THE BRIDE (tasting the words once more): Youâre mine.
Frank can feel the heat of her gaze on the top of his head. Every second he stays down there is an offering. This is what you want, take it, take all of me, just donât go. The shame is there, hot in his throat, but so is a terrible grateful relief. She hasnât sent him away. She is still touching him, wanting him nearby.
Her fingers trace the scar on his temple again then slide down to his jaw and tilt his face up. Her eyes are dark and glittering with something newânot just rage, but a familiar experimental hunger. Retribution. Restitution. Recompense. Something else.
THE BRIDE: Say it.
FRANK (without a second of hesitation): Iâm yours.
She likes that. He can see the delight it gives her, the way her shoulders loosen, the way her breath deepens. She leans down and forward and kisses him with the voracity he first taught her. No love, she tells herself, just greed. Her teeth catch his lower lip. He groans into her mouth and lets her take what she wants.
It works for a while.
THE BRIDE: Lick me.
The Bride reaches under her skirt and pulls her underwear over her legs. Frankâs whole body tenses. She struggles a bit with her brace but manages to get it out of the way. He watches her knees spreading.
The skirt is raised and he sees gleaming white-blonde curls. A careful hand reaches out and feels its way. He takes in her smell then breathes out. She shivers, she can feel his sigh.
THE BRIDE: I said lick me.
He leans forward with his mouth open. The tongue presses, flattens, then drags upward with a hum. He kisses her cunt, pushing his tongue further.
THE BRIDE: Slow. Slow down.
He pulls away for a moment. His hand moves up to stroke her thigh. He remembers the softness of her smooth skin, how supple, how warm. Her pulse on her throat under his palm, her arms reaching over his shoulders, her body shuddering before their first climax. Back then fucking her for the first time under the shelter of a lie. Now fucking her for the second time in the uncertainty of honesty.
He tilts his head and continues. Her hips push against him. She is wordless but not silent. She is embodied through no pain. She begins to consider her apotheosis. Then she considers nothing.
She gives out a low moan. Once she sits back up and looks down it takes a moment for her to noticeâhis unbuttoned pants, his hidden hand. His panting that is a plea.
THE BRIDE: Stand up.
He does.
THE BRIDE: On your back.
He lies on the cold table. She climbs on top of him. Finds him ready, takes him in with a little grunt and a cry. She had forgotten how perfectly he fit.
She moves with a knowledge that precedes her.
THE BRIDE (voice low but cracking): Is this what you wanted?
Frank canât answer, but he can feel it shifting.
Even as pleasure builds in both of them, something in her begins to sour. She chases a sort of temporary mental obliteration which could be considered peace. An acceptance that feels like superiority. Same names but new roles to playâthat might be the needed reconfiguration, if there is no way out. It is nearer, but it falters.
Her grip tightens and punishes. Her breath grows sharper, frustrated. The more he gives the more she realizes it isnât enough. It canât rewrite the past and it canât wipe the slate clean. They remain the exact same two stitched-together bodies in the same dark room where they have both been born all wrong.
She comes with a gasp that sounds half like triumph and half like grief. He finishes with a quiet groan.Â
Afterward her body slumps on top of his, with the side of her head landing on his chest. Frank tries to catch his breath. His hand rests on her back. She can hear how his heart still hammers with fear and need.
She runs her fingers over the old open sore on his abdomen, that which never fully healed.
THE BRIDE (in a hoarse voice, not unlike that of when she came into being): This... it feels good for a minute. But then itâs still just us... Still just two freaks fucking and trying to not feel so alone. (laughs) The pleasure exhausts itself so fast, Frankie. Like it knows itâs a lie.
Frank closes his eyes. The fingers and the words hurt, but they also feel true.
FRANK (quiet, bordering on reverent): I know. But Iâll still take the minute.
She doesnât answer. This isnât failure as much as a lesson, or so she hopes.
The laboratory feels enormous around themâall glass and steel and cold air.
The second womb. The wedding night. Perhaps something like a truce.
===
INTERLUDE
Sister, why is our door open wide?
           In the dark. Three women. One. Three. Black, orange, white. Mary, Ida, the Bride.
           A circle of light. A mouth with cracked lips. A laugh. A cry. A yell. Her wide open eyes.
           Orchestra swells. Strings arrive. A dream ballet, her dream, their dream. Shared psychosis, folie à trois. Now if I had listen to what my three women said...
And spin, she spins, they spin. Mirror images, crooked, off center. The cameraman is drunk. And we all sit together, back to back, we stand together, resting our weight against the other. Orange bright against monochrome. On the sides the mourning black and the bridal white. Mary Ida the Bride. Knees bend, legs stretch, go higher, closer to Heaven... Hips turn, spin they spin they turn together in a circle. A kick and the flash of red boots.
           Then I looked at my sister.
           Should she on pain of death go now
           And free our brother who
           May be dead or no?
My brother my father my lover he is me he is mine he is the sentence my conviction.
Defiance to tyrants is obedience to God. My God is dead. My God is family. My God is a woman. My God is Love. My God is ME.
My love must be a kind of blind love I canât see anyone but you but I only have eyes for you the moon might be high but I canât see a thing in the sky they all disappear from view you you you
Lullaby of Broadway and regimented men march. A well-oiled machine. Synchronicity. Unhappy the land that is in need of monsters.
âCause I only have eyes for you you are here and so I am maybe millions of people go by but they all disappear from view you you YOU
Sings a choir of women in white.
And all the women dance. They move as one, they attempt to, as Mr Berkeley orders them to, as Mr Warner pays them to. Theyâre professionals. They have the grace of being born for it. Joan Blondell laughs. Lithe limbs soft chiffon shimmering silk silver screen starlet fantasy. Wide open eyes and thin arched eyebrows in a black and white kaleidoscope.
Big smiles high kicks arms wave. Beautiful beautiful legs long straight camera goes right between them. Open legs. Perfect geometry. A parade of beauty. Your dream. With no words, with no song Iâm gonna dance the dream and make the dream come true.
Dance âtill youâre dead!
Canât you die soon? Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â CANâT YOU LET ME DIE?
Red boots turn and turn and stomp and jump. Mary opens her arms and cackles. Her design. Ida and the Bride dance together, hands clasped, spinning together, red boots burning on shiny slick polished black floor. Ida has a red slap on her left cheek and the Bride has a black bruise on her right eye. Still they smile.
Arms intertwine. Legs cross. Muscles tense. Strong arms, strong backs. This dance is a struggle. You can see their pulse on their throats. It looks effortless but itâs not. Youme and Meyou. Youme knows what Meyou wants. Wonât you dance with me, sister? I am not you I am me. Us we me I. Please please Mary mother come to me donât forsake me donât leave me here among these monsters. Iâll be your monster Iâll follow your script.
Itâs all just lies and imitation homage and inspiration influences and you you YOU Iâll be good Mr Warner Iâll eat from your palm Iâll make you loads of money Iâll sacrifice myself a bright fire your fire burn fast and bright.
Iâll change the way I think the way I look. Cover the scar with makeup. I will remake myself. I will die and be reborn.
Ida and the Bride press against each other, breathe in, then split then come together then fuse. Two women become one. I could not tear my eyes away from it. The way it movedâlike nothing else I had seen before. Beauty in motion. A mechanical ballet.
BANG BANG BANG. Lightning flash. Fuck me up. Ida and the Bride fall in slow motion.
Orange flame bright against monochrome. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â THE FILM STOCK NITRATE FIRE FIRE SOS FIRE.
THE FILM STRIP BURNS. ORANGE FLAME. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â LIGHT LIGHT FOOTLIGHT PARADE LIGHT BLINDING LIGHT Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â IT CRACKLES IT BURNS BUT
THE FIRE KEEPS US ALIVE.
===
NEW REEL. FADE IN. Morning comes slowly to the institute. The light through the tall windows is gray and watery, the kind of light that doesnât commit to anything. The Bride has been wandering. The Doctorâs promise heldâthe doors are unlocked. She can leave any room she wants. She can enter any room she wants. This is freedom, technically. It feels smaller than she expected.
THE BRIDE rubs her eyelids. She has slept. Not well, not peacefully, but she has slept. The wound on her chest has closed properly now, a dark line among the bullet scars. She runs her fingers over it absently as she walks. The sting is familiar now. Almost comforting. A landmark on a body that still feels like borrowed territory.
The hallway is long and carpeted. Her red boots sink into the runner with each step. She passes doors. Some closed. Some open onto empty roomsâstorage, a library, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub. The institute is a maze of old wealth and newer science. Modern design. All modern necessities. The Doctorâs domain. The Doctorâs architecture.
She finds the study by accident. Itâs smaller than the laboratory and smaller than the dining room where they screamed at each other. A writing desk. A chair. Bookshelves, many. And on a low table by the window, a radio.
She stands in the doorway. The radio is a wooden box with a speaker grille like a chapel window. Dials. An antenna. It looks like something from another century, which it is. Waiting for her.
She crosses the room. Her fingers find the dial. She doesnât know why she turns itâcuriosity, perhaps. The same curiosity that made her touch the neon tube in the laboratory, that made her ask Frank what her name was, that made her kiss him on the pavement before she understood what that kiss actually meant. She has always reached for the world before understanding it.
A burst of static. She turns the dial again. The static shifts, whines, searches.
Then music. It comes through the speaker thin and distant, like a voice offscreen. A melody she doesnât recognize. An orchestra. A manâs voice, soft and slow. The words are about remembering. Something easy to remember. Something hard to forget.
Something in her chestânot the wound, deeper than the woundâsomething in her chest recognizes the shape of the music. The rhythm. The way the notes fall. She was made from the dead, and the dead danced once. The dead listened to radios. The dead hummed while they worked. Her bones know music even if her mind doesnât know this song.
The man on the radio sings about a love thatâs over. She doesnât catch all the words. Something about a dream. Something about forgetting. The melody is sad but not heavy. It moves like water, like something that knows how to carry weight.
She hums. Not the words, just the tune. Her voice is hoarseâshe spent yesterday screaming, spent last night making sounds she hadnât planned to make.
She thinks about the nightclub. The colors of the neon light. The warmth of sweating bodies. The music had been louder then, faster, and a woman or maybe a man or maybe neither or both had been singing about a lake or something of the sort. She had danced. She had liked it. She had known all the moves, or maybe just knew how to enjoy moving. Frank had watched her from the bar, and she had known he was watching, and she had danced anyway. It was the first thing she did that felt like hers.
She sways just a little. Her bad leg complains a little  but she shifts her weight around it. The body learns. The body adapts. She has been learning (remembering) to move in this body since the moment she woke up. Walking. Running. Climbing. Fucking. And now this swaying, alone, to a song she doesnât fully know.
The song ends. Another begins. She doesnât turn it off.
She stays in the middle of the room, waiting for the next melody, waiting to see if the music will pull her further into movement or leave her stranded in the silence.
The ballad fades. Thereâs a crackle of static between stations, a brief silence, and then a new song comes through. Piano. A manâs voice, higher and lighter than the last.
She tilts her head. Her body remembers this kind of music, too. Music that makes you want to move. Music that doesnât care if youâre sad or happy or neither. Music that just asks you to dance.
The words come through clearer now. She catches fragments:
âIâd work for you, Iâd slave for you...â
A love song. Another love song. Always love songs. But this one is different: the singer knows heâs not the one. Heâs temporary. Heâs the one she settles for until something better arrives. Heâs offering everything with the full knowledge that it might not be enough. Devotion as the defining clause of love. For better or worse, to cherish and obey, for ritual horror, in sickness and in health...
Do you take this man? You love him. Until the end of time...
âUntil the real thing comes along...â
She almost laughs. The real thing. What is the real thing? Frank thought she was the real thingâthe answer to his loneliness, the proof of his humanity. The Doctor thought she was the real thingâa successful experiment, a gift to be given. She thought... what did she think? What can be accepted as real anymore, other than the body?
The song doesnât care about any of that. The song just swings. She starts to move.
Not swaying this time. Dancing. She steps forward, back, her red boots finding a rhythm on the carpet. Her arms lift. Her hips shift. The brace on her leg makes some movements awkward, so she works around it, letting her upper body do more of the work, turning her head, aligning the spine, letting her arms trace patterns in the dusty air.
She dances and her shoulders turn and jerk. Faster and faster and backward and in high heels. Kicks and impact and whiplash. Shoot point-blank. Gunfire burst. Bullets landing on her and her body shakes in a frantic choreography. BANG BANG BANG. Violence. Pain pain painâthen blank.
She dances and dreams of legibility. Fluidity. Witness. Anonymity. Seen and not seen. Normal and abnormal.
She dances and she thinks about the nightclub and the women there and all the names sheâs never gotten to try.
The song plays on. She moves to the piano solo, her reflection sliding across the dark glass of the bookshelf cabinet. She catches herself and stops for a moment. Looks. The woman in the glass looks back. Pale. Scarred. Red boots. Wild hair. Haunted.
Who is she?
She tries a name on, speaking it aloud over the music. Iâm Jean.
No. Jean Harlow is beautiful and glamorous and dead at twenty-six. Also dead. Like Ida. Like Mary. The Bride wants to be alive.
She spins badly, and her leg almost gives out and catches herself on the back of the chair. She laughs at herself.
Greta. Greta Garbo. Mysterious. Solitary. The woman who wants to be alone. But the Bride isnât sure she wants to be alone. Thatâs the problem. If she wanted to be alone, she wouldnât have brought him back. If she wanted to be alone, she wouldnât be waiting to see if heâd find her here.
She pushes off the chair and keeps moving.
Ginger. Ginger Rogers. Dancing backwards in heels. Elegant, effortless, Fred Astaireâs perfect partner. The whole world wants them together. The whole world wrote them into a script and expected them to follow it. The name fits too well and not at all.
Jean Greta Ginger Marlene Penelope Pretty Penny fuck fuck fuck...
She stops. Her breath is coming faster now. None of the names fit. She is not Jean or Greta or Ginger and much less Pretty fucking Penny. She is not Ida nor Mary. She is the Bride. Thatâs the only name thatâs stuck. Bride without a wedding. Bride without a groom she chose freely. Bride as relational role. Bride as function, not identity.
The music is still playing.
She closes her eyes. She lets the names go. She just moves.
The body remembers how to do this. The body doesnât need a name. The body just needs a rhythm and a floor and to take up space.
===
ENTER THE SO-CALLED GROOM. The man with no name, though he has many names. Adam Satan Devil Daemon Monster Creature Prodigal Son. Frankenstein was my fatherâs name. He accepts Frank because he never had a nickname before.
He hears the music from the corridor. He has been wandering too. The institute is large and he didnât have the run of it before. Now the doors are open and he doesnât know what to do with the freedom.
The music pulls him. Not the melodyâhe doesnât recognize it, isnât sure he likes itâbut the presence of sound in a house that has been nothing but silence and screaming for days. Someone is listening to the radio. Someone is in the study. He knows who it is.
He could turn back. He could leave her alone. She might want to be alone. She has made it very clear, in words and scissors and slammed doors, that his presence is not always welcome. Seldom welcome. Rejected. That his presence is, in fact, the wound she keeps reopening.
He doesnât turn back. He walks toward the music instead.
The study door is half open. He stops in the doorway.
She is dancing. Her back is to the door, her arms lifted, her hips moving in a rhythm that doesnât quite match the song. Her bad leg drags slightly when she turns. She turns anyway, compensating with a swing of her body that is part improvisation and part defiance. The red boots are scuffing the carpet. Her platinum curls sway and bounce.
He has seen her dance before. The frenzy of the ballroom. Before that, the nightclub. The neon. The spotlight in his mind. That silk and feather dress in white, the one that made her look like she belonged in the movies. The Ginger to his Fred. He had watched her from the bar. Sheâs with me, she dances and sheâs with me. He had imagined dancing with her, both of them graceful in an impossible way. He had stayed still and watched her. Sheâs my wife. He had watched her and his dream projected onto reality.
Now he watches differently. Now he sees the work. The way she compensates for the brace. The way her hands search the air for something to hold onto. The way her face is closed, private, focused. She is not performing. She is not trying to be beautiful nor graceful. She is trying to be present in her own body, and the body is not cooperating completely, but she is insisting anyway.
He leans against the doorframe. The floorboard creaks.
She stops. Her arms drop. Her spine stiffens. He stands up straight. She doesnât turn around immediately. The song keeps playing but the dance is over. He has broken it just by being here. The breaker.
FRANK: Donât stop.
His voice is rougher than he meant it to be. He clears his throat.
She turns. Her face is hard to read. Not furious. Certainly not welcoming. Guarded. Assessing. She is waiting to see what he wants, what demand heâs going to make, what new claim heâs going to stake on her attention.
He doesnât have one. Thatâs the strangest part. Right then he doesnât want anything except for her to keep dancing and be her witness.
FRANK: Sorry. I heard the music. I didnât mean toâ
THE BRIDE: Gaze?
Her voice is flat, but thereâs a curl at the edge of it. Almost amusement.
FRANK: I was passing by.
THE BRIDE: You were passing by the study. At the end of the hall. With the door half closed.
Sheâs right. He followed her. He keeps following her, even now, even after everything.
FRANK: I can leave.
She considers this. The song is still playing. The singer is still making promises. She looks at him and something in her face shifts with the arrival of a memory.
THE BRIDE (pointing at him, an accusatory finger): You watch dance movies. We saw one, when we first left this place.
FRANK: Yes.
THE BRIDE: You told me about them. Memory lane, memory jog, flashback. Fred Astaire. Ginger Rogers. A leg shorter than the other. That talentless hack, Ronnie Reed.
FRANK: He wasnâtâ
THE BRIDE: You watch them dance, but you donât dance.
FRANK (unsure of where she is going, willing to follow regardless): No.
THE BRIDE: You said that back then. Another lie.
She steps toward him, almost tripping on the edge of the carpet.
THE BRIDE: We danced together. I remember it. The night at the ballroom. The night I killed a cop. The night you kissed me. Yes, we danced.
FRANK (smiles): Yes, we did.
THE BRIDE: It was the happiest I can remember being.
That confession does not feel like confession but it still startles him. He regrets her witnessing the cruelty of the world. He regrets many things. But he canât regret that night. The chaos. The joy. The fun.
FRANK: I feel the same.
THE BRIDE: And still you say you donât dance.
FRANK: Well... I donât know how. To do it well. Back there, it was impulse.
THE BRIDE (gestures at her own bodyâthe brace, the scars, the leg that almost gave out during her spin): You think I know how?
He doesnât have an answer. She was made yesterday, metaphorically. She learned to walk with a brace in an afternoon. She learned to run from gunfire through alleys. She learned to drive in a car chase while being pursued by police. Dancing is just another thing sheâs figuring out by doing it her way.
Her pale eyebrows rise. Itâs not an invitation. Not exactly. Itâs another challenge. A test. Show me you can do something that isnât lying or whining.
He steps into the room.
The singer has moved on to the next verse, still winking at the absurdity of the promise of devotion. The Bride steps back, clearing a space on the carpet. She waits with her weight shifted onto her good leg. It is her time to watch.
Stage fright. Performance anxiety. Frank stands in the middle of the room like a man who has forgotten how his limbs work.
He has faced mobs. He has strangled men, women and children with his bare hands. He has stalked his creator across a continent and burned down a house with a family inside. He has done terrible things and endured terrible things. But he does love watching, does love dance, and she knows that. Will you let me see?
He tries moving to the rhythm. He thinks of the silver screen steps, chooses one as a reference point, then confesses to himself that he will never achieve that grace. Regardless. His right foot slides forward, then his left. The movement is mechanical and deliberate. He finds himself still trying to impress her and failing. His arms hang at his sides. His shoulders are up around his ears.
The Bride watches for three more steps. Then she snorts. Despite herself, entertained.
He tries to loosen his shoulders. They go from rigid to slumped, which is not the same as loose but is, at least, different. His knees bend. His feet move. The result is less like dancing and more like a slow, uncertain shuffle.
The radio plays on. The piano solo returns. The tempo picks up.
He keeps moving. Faster now. His feet tangle. He stumbles and catches himself on a shelf. The whole room is slightly angled and askew.
The song is ending. The singer makes his final promise, until the real thing comes along, and the piano plays a last little run. Then silence. Then static. Then a voice announcing the time, the weather, a brief news bulletin about something happening in Europe, something that stays in the background for a few more years but is already gathering. Neither of them moves to turn it off.
Sheâs still looking at him. Heâs still standing by the bookshelf. Watching each other.
She steps back into the center of the room. The next song starts. Something she doesnât recognize, a ballad with a lot of strings.
She dances. Like before, though perhaps leaving some room for him on the side, a concession. He sees this allowing and assesses the situation. He dances, too.
He copies her. Not in a mocking way, but in the way of someone learning a language by immersion. She turns. He turns. She lifts her arm. He lifts his. Full focus. Sheâs trying to make herself clear. Heâs trying to understand her rhythm from the inside.
She notices him mirroring. At first it annoys her. Then it amuses her. She tests it and makes a sudden movement to see if he follows. He does. He speeds up, she staggers but keeps the pace. She slows down. He slows down. The mirroring becomes an awkward attempt at conversation.
===
The song is over. The dance is done. The spell could break. They could retreat to their corners, put the gloves back on. She could remember her hate. He could remember his deference. The old scripts are waiting, patient, ready to resume.
The silence stretches. Neither of them reaches for their roles.
THE BRIDE: At the nightclub, where you watched me dance. You didnât dance with me.
FRANK (still excusing, somehow): I thought about it.
THE BRIDE: You beat up a fucker who got frisky.
FRANK: Two fuckers.
THE BRIDE: You could have danced with me instead.
He absorbs this. Sheâs right. He didnât ask. He watched from the bar with his fear and his hope and his several glasses of whatever he was drinking and he didnât once think to actually join her on the floor. He thought watching was enough.
FRANK (slowly): I should have asked you.
THE BRIDE: Yeah.
FRANK (less slow, more intently): Not just the dancing. Everything. I should have asked you. For each thing. Not lie. From the beginning.
She looks at him. The right words. What he says is obvious, though clearly not that obvious to him. Her hand tightens slightly. Anger and acknowledgement.
He doesnât look away. His eyes on her exist somewhere between hope and caution. He could have just said sorry instead. Despite a lifetime of disappointment, of refusal, of deprivation, he is still undone by want.
She canât forgive. She thinks about it. She could say yes, itâs alright, you know that now. Or she could step back, rebuild the distance, return to the safety of her rage. The rage is still there, banked but not extinguished. It might always be there. It might be part of her now, like the scars, like the brace, like the way her voice goes hoarse when sheâs tired.
For this moment she wants to stand in a room with a man who danced alongside her. Maybe dance another song.
And yet. She cannot trust the tongue of the man who hurt her. It will tell her what she wantsânot whatâs real. Awareness is not recognition.Â
===
The Doctor finds Frank reading alone in the study. She is curious as to what he is reading, but canât catch a proper peek of the book cover. He sees her staring, but remains still. The radio is off.
DOCTOR: I was wondering where youâd gone. (takes a deep breath) Have you seen her today?
Frank doesnât answer. The Doctor takes another step forward.
DOCTOR: Did you make up already? Or are we currently deep in a cold war?
Frank doesnât answer either. The Doctor shakes her head.
DOCTOR: You two are complicating it more than necessary. (crosses her arms, ready to explain) Does she love you?
She has kissed him, fucked him, danced beside him out of her own free will. She has admitted that she lives with him inside her mind. Most importantly, she chose him. She brought him back. He believes thatâs not nothing.
FRANK: I think so.
DOCTOR: What do you want to do?
FRANK: To love her. Truly.
DOCTOR: Does she need you like you need her?
He must answer what he knows, not what he wants to be true. He reminds himself of it.
FRANK: I wish. I hope. I shouldnât, but I hope so.
DOCTOR: Do you love her?
Frank stares at the Doctor.
DOCTOR: Do you love her? Or do you need her?
Frank realizes he canât tell.
The Doctor heads toward the bookshelf and picks up what she came for. She presses the soft leather binding against her chest and thinks of the first book her husband gave her. She is used to certainty, even in confusion, even in doubt. A world in black and white. Frank can recognize that. He doesnât care much about changing the Doctorâs mind. Not that he could.
What he does not say is that he thinks the Bride might have left already. It might not be a fact. It must just be his fear. If she is not with him, and is not with the Doctor, nor with the books nor the radio, he canât think of where else she could be. He wishes to search for her. Just to be certain she is still there. And yet he fears finding empty air. Sitting there in silence allows for a fragile state of her being-and-not-being. Not relieving as much as delaying. What he has done ever since she woke up.
Frank covers his face with his hands.
FRANK: This was a mistake.
The Doctor thinks she knows what he means by that.
DOCTOR: Do you regret it?
FRANK: No. (thinks) Yes. (thinks again) I donât know.
The Doctor nods. She does know.
He had been nervous. He had second thoughts back when the Doctor had reinvigorated his mate. Or sudden anxieties, rather. Letâs try it tomorrow. Letâs delay it. There was no way to know for sure. That was the birth of the lie.
DOCTOR: Iâve been thinking about your future.
FRANK: Our future.
DOCTOR: In case the South America plan does not work out. You see, the scientific community would be very interested in you. Both of you. Successful reanimation, not once but twiceâthis is unprecedented. You could be presented. You could contribute to a greater understanding of life and death. Of consciousness. Of the soul, if such a thing exists.
There is a pause. The pace in her sentences betrays the calculated rhythm of practice. The Doctor has planned this. She is not hiding it well.
DOCTOR: What do you say? You wouldnât be fugitives anymore.
FRANK: Weâd be specimens.
DOCTOR: Youâd be pioneers.
FRANK: Exhibits.
DOCTOR: Collaborators.
FRANK (quiet): Freaks.
DOCTOR: Colleagues.
The Doctor assesses her own ambition. Then she shifts her tone and the angle of her head.
DOCTOR: Leaving the country as two killers, itâs easier said than done. Disguises can only go so far. (she breathes in, steady hands) Iâm offering you a place. A purpose. The world outside wants you deadâyou know this. But in here, under my protection, you could be something more than monsters. You could be miracles.
Frank hasnât quite expected this from the Doctor. He gives a quiet scoff. He can imagine the advertising campaign already. The Doctorâs sales pitch is shameless in a way thatâs entertainingly insulting.
FRANK: You want to present us. To other scientists.
DOCTOR: Yes.
FRANK (just to make sure): Together.
DOCTOR (smiles): Naturally. Your bond is part of what makes you fascinating. The first man and woman of a new creation. Adam and Eve, if youâll forgive the biblical language. You complete each other.
FRANK: She wonât like your offer.
DOCTOR (nods): I understand your concerns. But I know I cannot force you to do anything. This is just a proposal. A mutually beneficial agreement.
A small doubt strikes and becomes alight inside him. There is a benefit and it would be silly from him not to notice that. He likes the Doctorâs home. He likes a table where he can have breakfast every morning. He likes being treated like a person. He likes the idea of somewhere to stay. But he knows she would not stay there.
FRANK: I think... I would prefer not to.
She would not stay there. And neither would he.
FRANK: Yes, I think I would prefer not to.
The Doctorâs hard smile slowly widens into something more genuinely amused.
DOCTOR: So thatâs your answer.
The Doctor says nothing else for a moment. She is aware of Frankâs desperation, his yearning for acceptance. She had assumed he would at least consider it for a moment longer, ask for details and make some demands, turn it around in his head a bit further, maybe even sleep on it. Not this dry rejection.
DOCTOR: Are you sure?
FRANK (simple, matter-of-fact): I wonât be owned.
DOCTOR (quick): Not owned. Belong.
Frank knows the difference. Still, his answer is no.
===
The Bride is hungry again. She navigates the maze that is the institute in search of something to sink her teeth into. She remembers the dining room and deduces that the kitchen must not be too far.
She passes by the cat, licking its paw and washing its face. The cat stops and stares at her. When the Bride steps closer, the cat hisses and arches its back. The Bride hisses back. She wonders if the cat is a spy for the Doctor. The one creation that finds itself at home with her. Or perhaps another prisonerâshe has no way to know.
She opens a door. The Doctor is standing there a few feet away, in the big white kitchen, with her back to the Bride. The Doctor turns when she hears her steps. She blinks behind her thick round glasses.
DOCTOR: Oh, I was just about to look for you.
THE BRIDE: To check on me?
DOCTOR: To know how your wound is healing.
The Bride rubs it. Her fingers curl slightly, threatening it with her nails. She doesnât scratch it. She just lets it be.
The Doctor sets a small bundle of fabric and a paper bag on the counter.
DOCTOR: I thought you might need these.
The Bride eyes the bundle for a moment before properly examining the offering. A blue cotton dress, simple, sturdy, old-fashioned. The Bride doesnât like it, but it seems to be her size. A pair of dark stockings. Underthings, clean and new. In the paper bag: bread, cheese, an apple, a small knife wrapped in cloth. The Bride would rather have a gun.
THE BRIDE: Hm. Charity. Rarity. Pity.
DOCTOR: Call it what you like. Youâll still need to eat.
The Bride considers. Her old orange dress is goneâtorn, bloodstained, shed like snakeskin. The elegant dress the Doctor gave her is still stained from the scissors, from the blood, from last night. She canât walk out into the world looking like a murder scene.
She takes the apple from the bag first. Bites. The apple is slightly soft, a little bruised. The crunch is loud in the kitchen. The Doctor watches her chew. The Bride wouldnât discard the possibility that it could be poisoned. But she takes another bite anyway. The Doctor gives her a small, satisfied nod. The Bride tucks the blue dress under her arm. She might change later, somewhere private. She doesnât want to give the Doctor the satisfaction of watching her transform into something presentable.
DOCTOR: Did you make your choice already?
THE BRIDE: Not yet.
DOCTOR: But I assume youâre ready to leave.
THE BRIDE: I am willing.
Willing should be enough.
The Doctor will not ask her to stay. She wonât insist. She knows the Brideâs answer, and would rather not be laughed at. Her departure would be disappointing though inevitable, she supposes. The Doctor has known the Bride since she opened her eyes, she knows what she is like. She wonât let it bring her down. After all, this is progress. Individuation is another stage of the experiment. The Doctor can only grieve the fact that she will not see the eventual end of it.
DOCTOR: Do you know where youâll go?
THE BRIDE: No.
DOCTOR (figured as much): Then why are you in such a hurry to leave?
THE BRIDE: Because I have somewhere to be.
DOCTOR: ... Where?
THE BRIDE: I still donât know.
The Doctorâs face now loosens with an unprecedented empathy. Though it might just be pity.
DOCTOR (comforting): The world is not kind to a woman alone. Especially a woman alone and penniless. Frank would take care of you.
The Bride knows this. She knows panic, she knows threats, she knows the feel of unwanted hands. She can bite a manâs tongue out, but she needs to knock him down first. That might not be something she will always be able to do, even with a knife in her hand.
THE BRIDE (turning her face to the floor): I know.
DOCTOR: Arenât you afraid?
THE BRIDE: Yes. Iâm terrified. But staying here is just refusing to grow up.
She takes another bite of the apple, and chews thoughtfully.
THE BRIDE: Besides, I wonder what it would be like to go to the movies on my own. And maybe dancing, too.
After all, she canât really remember ever being alone. Only when driving desperately, carrying Frankâs unconscious body. But even then, was she really alone?
The Bride licks the back of her hand. The juice is sweet and a bit tart. Her own skin is slightly salty, like the taste of Frankâs skin. She wonders where he is before she can stop herself.
DOCTOR (perhaps approvingly, or just intrigued): Youâve changed.
THE BRIDE: Iâve been dead and alive and dead and alive again. I should hope so.
The Doctor looks at herâreally looks. The Bride canât tell if she actually sees her for once.
DOCTOR (clapping her hands): Well! This is the right choice. We must grow and mature, after all. Become people of substance. After all, ânothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.â
THE BRIDE: Keats. A true Romantic. (Mary taught her that)
DOCTOR: Indeed.
The cat meows and jumps onto the desk, and the Doctor strokes its fur lovingly.
DOCTOR: No matter. It can be done. The procedure can be replicated. You might end up having more siblings, eventually.
THE BRIDE: I hope you fail.
DOCTOR (chuckles): You know I wonât.
===
The Bride stands in the mint-green bathroom in front of the mirror over the sink. She found an eyebrow pencil in a drawer. She picks it up, licks the tip. She raises it to her face and presses it to the place between her eyes.
The clean cold light shifts. Flickering, sickly green glow in the dark. Her face staring back for the first time. You like that, sister? There was the nightclub powder room, and the other people, the other women. Fixing their hair, their makeup, getting ready to go back and be seen. The Bride remembers one of the women offering to do her eyebrows. Come here. Her clammy hand tilted her chin so she could see her work. Careful dark lines above her eyes. A freely offered, willingly accepted little intervention.
She doesnât quite manage such neat lines herself. The heel of her hand rubs against her white eyebrows and draws them again.
Frank seeks the bathroom. The Bride hears him approaching and stays still. They look at each other. A moment passes. The Bride continues, and Frank comes closer, and stands beside her behind the sink.
Frank rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands and attempts to clean his nails. Theyâre dark with the years of caked dirt and blood clots. Still he tries and scrubs hard. Mainly he takes advantage of the warm tap water, which he knows he might not encounter again in a long time.
The Bride leans closer to the mirror. It fogs slightly with her breath. Another small stroke. This is harder than the woman made it seem.
She catches his eye in the mirror. Heâs watching again. She looks back to her work.
Have you packed? Thereâs not much to pack. The question dies before being born.
THE BRIDE: What will you do, once you leave?
Frank thinks. He doesnât really have a plan.
FRANK: Iâm going to go to the pictures and watch Swing Time.
THE BRIDE: Hm. (barely smiles) Tell me if itâs any good.
Frank looks at her through the mirror. The Bride continues focusing on her makeup.
FRANK: What about you?
THE BRIDE (after some empty seconds; she decides to share): I thought Iâd try being no one for a while. See if someone arrives.
Her eyebrows are finally symmetrical satisfactory. Frank dries his hands on a soft, pure white towel. The Bride passes behind him just as Frankâs arms drop. Their hands touch. They stop.
Carefully, fingers press against the otherâs, and hold gently. She gives his warm hand a squeeze. He returns it.
Then she lets his hand go and leaves.
===
Somewhere in the institute, a radio plays on.
The blue dress remains neatly folded on the counter. The torn and stained orange dress is gone. A book is left on the dining table, dogeared and unfinished. Someone took all the apples.
The Doctor goes to the bathroom. Empty. The kitchen. Empty. The dining room. Empty. The laboratory is empty too, except for the cat. Her shoulders drop. Her dolls are missing.
The Doctor does not know if the Bride left before. She does not know where they went, or if she and Frank went together or apart. It is suddenly disquieting to realize how much she does not know about her own creation, how much she might never know.
The feeling comes and leaves, carried away by a sigh.
The Doctor stands in the laboratory with her hands in her pockets. Electricity hums. The cat purrs. She sits down at her desk, and after a moment she pulls a new sheet of paper toward her, and she begins to write.
Notes. Observations. The next project. The work continues.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
The rooming house announces itself modestly. A painted sign by the door, white letters on dark green. ROOMS BY WEEK OR MONTH âCLEAN âREASONABLE. A pot of something dead on the front step, which was probably flowers in a warmer season. A light on in the front window.
He puts his hat back on âthen, remembering, takes it off again. She smiles. She straightens her jacket, smooths the front of her dress where the silk still holds its color despite everything it has been through. He offers his arm, with the slight stiffness of someone performing a gesture he has seen rather than learned. She still takes it.
They walk to the door. She knocks. He stands slightly behind her right shoulder ânot hiding, just positioned.
The woman who opens the door is perhaps sixty, with the particular economy of movement that comes from decades of efficiency. Grey hair pinned back, and an apron that suggests she was doing something before this and will return to it immediately after. The womanâs eyes move over them once âquickly, completely âbefore her face arranges itself into the script.
âEvening. You'll be looking for a room?â
âYes,â she says. A beat. âPlease.â
The landlady's gaze moves briefly to the brace, to the silk dress with its record of stains, to the scarf pulled high over his face, to his scarred hand where it holds the hat. Then back to her face.
The door opens further. They are allowed in.
The entry hall is narrow, dark, warm. A runner carpet muffles steps. Their cheeks sting gently as they thaw. There is the low, constant hissing of radiators. Pipes ticking calmly. A hum from another room âmaybe a resident, maybe a radio. Whatever the case, the quiet is comfortable.
"It's four dollars a week. Includes the room and use of the bathroom down the hall. Hot water runs best before eight in the morning." A pause, the length of a breath. "I'll need a name for the register."
âMargaret,â she says. Two seconds of silence. âMargaretââ
âStein,â he says quietly.
She turns to give him a look âjust briefly. He meets her eyes for a moment before lowering his head, turning the hat brim once in his hands.
The landlady has noted the hesitation. She writes it down without comment. âAnd your... husband?â
A moment that neither of them fills.
âHe doesn't speak much,â she finally says.
The landlady looks at him. He looks at the doorframe.
âFour dollars,â she repeats, and holds out her hand.
He reaches into the wool coat and counts the bills carefully. The landlady takes them, folds them once, and steps back.
The hallway smells of boiled cabbage and furniture polish and, somewhere underneath both, the particular warmth of a house that has been heated consistently for many years. A staircase. A row of hooks with hanging coats. A clock on the wall that ticks with authority.
She leads them up. Her shoes on the stairs are efficient, unhurried. She speaks without turning around.
âBathroom is the second door on the left. There's one other couple on this floor, a Mr and Mrs Hooper âthey keep to themselves. Gentleman on the floor above works nights, so you won't hear him much in the evenings.â A door is unlocked and opened. âFront door locks at ten. If you're coming in after, knock three times and I'll hear you.â
The room is small but not austere. A frost-feathered window that looks onto a narrow courtyard âa tree, bare, and the backs of other buildings, their windows mostly dark. A bed with a brass headboard and a quilt in faded blue. A table with two chairs. A small framed landscape. A standing wardrobe. A rug on the floor between the bed and the window.
They step inside. The landlady stands at the threshold a moment longer than necessary. Not watching them âjust present. Her hand rests on the door frame.
âTowels are in the cupboard. Help yourselves to one each.â And then, more quietly, almost as an afterthought: âThere's a bolt on the inside of your door.â
She leaves. Her steps descend the stairs at the same efficient pace.
They stand in the room.
The bolt on the inside of the door. Said without emphasis, without explanation. An offering, or a warning, or simply information âimpossible to say which.
She crosses to the window and looks out at the dark courtyard. He sets his hat on the table. The clock downstairs ticks through the walls.
âMargaret Stein,â she says quietly, to the window.
He says nothing. But she can hear, from the quality of his silence, that he is not entirely sorry.
A crocheted doily rests under a lamp. The bedsheets smell slightly of soap and starch. The wallpaper is faded, but intact. She thinks of the peeling walls, exposed pipes, the dulled noises of poverty from the last night they spent in shelter. This feels entirely new.
She removes her coat first. Opens the wardrobe âfinds a few hangers âand counts them before setting the black leather on one. The wool jacket slips off his arms. She hangs it, too. When she tries to close the doors, half an inch remains stubbornly open.
The gun and the money are set down on the table. She glances at the gun before focusing on the crumpled bills. She sits and counts, setting the coins in neat piles on the side. He watches. It comes close to appearing routine.
âTwenty-three dollars and fifty cents,â she states.
He nods. âNew coats.â
She nods back. A priority. Disguises, to go with the names. Mr and Mrs Stein.
For a while, neither of them moves. The lamp casts a warm circle on the table. Outside, the courtyard is fully dark now, the bare tree just a shape against the backs of other buildings. Somewhere in the house, a door closes softly. The clock ticks on.
He has taken off the scarf. He sits with his elbows on the table, his hands loosely folded. He looks at the wallpaper. At the doily. At the wardrobe with its door that won't fully close.
âA week,â he says.
They have been walking briskly for about an hour, she believes. Putting distance between the hardware store and themselves. Through the evening cold, through the thrill and stress of their first joint crime. Exhaustion slowly sinks in.
There is a door at the end of the hall. The sound of ticking pipes. The promise of a moment of pause.
âThere's hot water,â she remembers.
She looks at him. Then at the door. Then back.
âI won't be long.â
She takes the towel and goes down the hall. The door closes. He is alone, though anxiety doesnât fully find its usual place in the muscles of his neck. He simply sits at the table instead. He hears the faint creak, thump, pause. He watches the gun, the money. He presses his hand to his side where the knife had gone in, testing it âmostly healed, just a tightness when he breathes too deeply.
The water runs somewhere. He listens to it.
The pink-tiled bathroom is small, but the tub is deep and the water is genuinely hot. She turns the tap until steam rises and the mirror over the sink clouds over âher reflection softening, then vanishing. She undoes the brace âby herself, following the sequence she has memorized âand sets it against the damp wall. The metal clicks against the tile. She sighs quietly, with the relief of it. The particular freedom of a leg that answers only to her for a few minutes, without metal or leather mediating the conversation.
She lowers herself into the water.
The heat takes her by slow inches âankles, calves, the backs of her knees. She shuts her eyes, then settles. Her left leg maneuvers carefully, stretches and sinks. The water closes over her shoulders. For a moment she simply sits there, hands floating palms-up near the surface, watching the steam rise toward the frosted window. The glass is opaque, grey-white. She can't see out. No one can see in.
She looks down at her body through the steam âthe pale skin, the scars on her knees that she still doesn't know the origin of, the marks the brace has left on her thigh. She runs her thumb over one of them. The skin is slightly raised, tender. Not painful. Just present.
She reaches for the soap. Works it between her hands until a thin lather forms. The smell is plain, functional but soft ânot the chemical sharpness of the lab. Just soap. She runs it over her arms, her shoulders, the hollow of her throat. The grime of the streets lifts slowly âa grey tinge in the lather, then gone. She watches it dissolve in the water.
The mud from the outskirts. The dust from the train. The blood from the alley âhis, not hers, but it had found its way onto her skin anyway. All of it washes away.
She sinks her hands below the surface and watches them blur. Her fingers: the blisters long healed, the skin smooth again. She flexes them once, watching the tendons move under the skin. They obey her. They belong to her. She is almost sure of this.
Her eyes find the brace, propped against the wall. From here it looks like a dead thing. The leather harness, dark with old sweat. The metal bars dull under the bathroom light. Without it, she is temporarily unmarked. A woman in a bathtub. Anyone.
But the brace is patient. She will put it back on, of course.
She looks away, toward the frosted window. Beyond it, somewhere, is the city. The hardware store. The clerk with his small patient smile. The man in the flat cap who emptied his pockets without argument. A growing list of witnesses.
Murder pair, she mouths silently. The words make no sound. Husband. Wife. Other people's words. Other people's decisions. Margaret Stein. A name that isnât hers, except that it is. A name he has given her, or helped to give her. His name.
She reaches for the bar of soap again. Turns it over in her hands. It's smaller now, worn smooth at the edges. She sets it back in its dish. Her hands spread over her cheeks, her forehead, her temples. Week-or-so-old makeup âand the face beneath, finally wiped clean.
Some would see her and think criminal. Others, cripple. Others, madwoman. A precious few, just a woman. And he âhis words are easy to guess. She is fragile. She is beloved. She is an answer, she is a cure. She is like him. His.
He is like her. He is what she chose. She could always change her mind.
She won't. She knows she won't.
The water is cooling. She can feel it at the edges âher shoulders, where the air meets the surface, are beginning to prickle with cold. She could add more hot water. She doesn't move. She focuses, instead, on the pressure of the tubâs enameled iron against her legs.
The doctors had seen her undressed many more times than he has. They knew more about her body âits measurements, its anomalies, the precise degree of its deviations. They did not know her half as much as he does. Nobody else does.
She chose to stay. Was that truly a choice, or was it simply continuing an arranged path? She had imagined another life on the train âa life alone. She had imagined it âfound it lacking. Then returned, and taken his hand. A tight grip. A claiming that went both ways.
I chose, she thinks. Her fingers press against her lips. I choose.
She owes him nothing, she tells herself. She still feels the sting of debt ânot in her mind, but somewhere lower, somewhere in the chest. A small, deep sharp thing, like a needle left in. She presses her hand flat against her sternum. The pressure doesn't dislodge it.
Her jaw tightens. She closes her eyes.
She sinks lower. Water reaches her chin. Her head tips back. Her hair fans out behind her, weightless. Carefully, she submerges âher neck, her nape, her ears âand stays still. Her ears are covered. The sound changes. A deep hum, a rumble of rusty pipes. Echoes of the house reach her, distorted but still recognizable. The patient clock downstairs. A door closing somewhere. The distant murmur of the Hoopers' ordinary life. Everything, beyond her little pocket of stillness.
She sits back up. The water sloshes gently against the sides of the tub. Her fingers have pruned. There is still dirt under her nails.
Turning again, she gathers and considers the details of the bathroom. The small collection of toothbrushes. The rust ring on the porcelain. The shaving razor with thin black hairs peeking out. The dark spots on the edges of the mirror. Two âfour âseven lightly cracked tiles. The signs of wear and recurrence.
 All of it suggests a pattern. A week. Then another week, if theyâre quiet. A month. The kind of time that accumulates into something like a life.
She thinks, we could stay.
Not forever. Not entirely safely. But for long enough to feel what that's like.
The water cools further. The steam has stopped rising. The mirror above the sink is still clouded âshe can't see herself, not yet. When she gets out, she will have to face it: the wiped glass, the face she has to share, the dirty orange dress, the tired black silk, the brace waiting against the wall.
But not yet.
She holds the quiet a moment longer. The furnace clicks and thrums below. The house holds her âa stranger, a fugitive, now a wife âin its warm indifferent palm.
Then she stands. Water sheets off her. The cold air meets her skin and she does not flinch. She reaches for the towel, and the brace, and her clothes.
The room is quiet when she pushes the door open. He is at the table, a hand resting on an open Bible that he found in a drawer. The gun rests nearby. His jacket is off, hanging over the back of the chair, along with the scarf.
He looks up when she enters.
She crosses to the wardrobe and hangs her towel over the door. Her hair is damp, pushed back from her face, and without the energy of the day it looks softer âless wild, more simply itself. She moves to the bed and sits on the edge, reaching down to tighten the brace's fastenings.
âWater's still hot,â she says.
He nods. He closes the Bible. He picks up the gun, checks it with the brief efficiency of a growing habit, and tucks it under the pillow nearest the door. Then he takes his towel from the cupboard and goes out.
She listens to his footsteps down the hall. The bathroom door. The distant sound of the tap.
She finishes with the brace, and flexes her foot once. Then she lies back on the quilt, arms loose at her sides, and looks at the ceiling.
It is a water-stained ceiling, with a crack running diagonally from the light fixture toward the far corner. Someone has painted over it at some point, but the crack is still there. She traces it with her eyes. The clock downstairs remains steady. Somewhere in the building, a door closes softly.
She thinks of the landlady's script, the precise timing of it that reveals practice. Breakfast at seven. Hot water before eight. The front door locks at ten. Repetition. Stability.
She thinks: a week has a shape to it. A month has a shape. She could learn the layout of the building. She could become, to the woman downstairs, simply half of the couple on the second floor âunremarkable, expected, present.
At least for a while. She could always change her mind.
She is still holding this thought when she hears his footsteps return.
He comes in with steps quieter than usual. The bath has done something to his movements, loosened them slightly. He crosses to the wardrobe, hangs his towel beside hers. She watches him from the bed.
He looks at the chairs by the table, then at her. He chooses the bed. He sits at the far end, his back against the brass headboard, legs stretched out. She shifts to mirror him, her back against the opposite end, her left leg extended between them.
The lamp on the table is low. The courtyard outside the window is dark and quiet. The building breathes around them. She looks at the wardrobe with the door that doesnât quite close.
âWe could have this,â she says, before turning to him. âSomething like this.â
He doesn't answer. She isn't asking him a question âshe's thinking out loud, which he knows by now is different. He waits instead.
âNot this room. But a room. The same room, more than a few nights.â She looks at the crack in the ceiling. âA week. Then another.â
He remains quiet. She can feel it âthe quality of his silence changing. His expression shifts into something she canât quite decode.
âWe have enough. For new coats, for more food,â she continues. âAnd... if we do it again, carefully, we'd have more. Enough to stop running for a while.â
He says nothing. But his hand, resting on the quilt between them, has closed slowly into a fist.
She notices. She doesn't remark on it.
âIt wouldn't have to be forever,â she says. Quieter now. âJust long enough.â
He looks at the fist he's made and opens it. Looks at his palm âthe scars there, the broken lines of old wounds. The new marks of his bruised nails, dug into his skin.
Stay. She doesnât say the word. But he can see she means it.
He thinks of the beetle under the floorboard, forever hidden. The tin in his coat pocket, the matches it still has. The gun under the pillow âthe bullets. He could do without all of it. He knows that. To have is to prepare to have not.
She is looking at him now. He can feel it.
He wants to say: yes. He wants to say: a week, then another, then we find out what a month feels like. He wants the reliability of marriage, even if itâs a performance âprecisely because itâs a performance. The comfortable script of domesticity. He realizes he wants to play the role.
He says nothing.
The wanting is so immediate and so complete that it frightens him. In a way the men in the alley didn't, in a way the police didn't, in a way nothing physical has in a very long time. Pleasure could be simple. A warm meal. A minute of music. A stolen kiss... This is not that. He can feel what lies beneath. And he had forgotten that hope, serious hope, had this particular density to it. He had spent a long time making himself forget.
She moves. She shifts her weight toward him, her hand finding the quilt between them. A question in the gesture. Not an uncertain one.
She looks at him. Leans forward. He smells clean and warm, just as she does. A kiss is pressed on his temple. His eyes close, he sighs. Her hand moves closer. A new kiss, to his lips. He remains still, before he turns his face away.
â... No.â
He looks at her hand. Then at her clean face.
âNot tonight,â he says. Quietly. Without coldness. Almost apologetic.
She goes still. She stays close. Her brow furrows.
âDoes it hurt?â There is no pity in her voice.
A small low sound, from the back of his throat. A refusal.
âThen why?â
He doesn't answer. She waits.
âYou want to?â she asks.
âYes.â
âAnd I want to.â
âYes.â
âThen why?â
The lamp catches the scars on his cheek, the deep lines around his eyes. He looks, for a moment, like a man who has forgotten how to speak. She studies him. She can see this is not pain. Not reluctance, either. Something else. Something she cannot immediately name.
â... I donât know.â
Perhaps fear âbut the source is not clear. When he says he doesnât know, he is telling the truth.
She believes him, and understands âshe can read the difference between not wanting and not now. But the distinction, in this moment, in this room she was just imagining staying in, doesn't fully satisfy.
Yet she remembers that first night together. The warmth. How he kissed her back. It wasnât easy for him. The unease was not too different to this. And it is not the same.
She draws her hand back. Looks at the ceiling. The crack runs through the same distance, undeniable and unresolved.
He doesn't move away. He doesn't explain. He canât. Instead he stays where he is, at his end of the bed, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him through the quilt. His hand moves âslowly, with the agonizing caution she knows well by now âand comes to rest near hers. Not touching. Available.
After a moment, she turns off the lamp.
The room goes dark. The courtyard outside the window offers a faint grey light, enough to see the shape of things without their details. She lies down. He lies down. The quilt settles over them both.
The hope she named is still in the room. So is his silence. So is the particular ache of a hand almost taken.
The clock marks the time. The furnace breathes below.
She watches the darkness where the ceiling crack was. He listens to her breathing slow.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
The afternoon showing has almost no one in it. A man asleep three rows ahead, snoring quietly. Two women near the front, sharing something from a paper bag. The screen unreels its light regardless âa swell of strings, a painted backdrop, someone's idea of a moonlit garden.
She chose it for the darkness and the time. Two hours, she gathers. Nobody would come to a Wednesday matinee to look at anyone but the screen.
He lowers himself into the seat beside her. She is already unbuttoning her coat âhis coat âfolding it across her lap. He watches the two women. Neither one turns around.
"Take it off,"" she whispers.
He removes the wool coat. Then the jacket beneath. Then, after a pause, the shirt is loosened enough that she can reach. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, head slightly bowed. She places her hand on his back. Gently pushes. He leans further. She pulls out the sewing kit.
"Do you sew?" he asks.
She looks up. The undershirt is torn open near the sleeve seam. Crusty with dark blood. It has spread, soaked the white cotton, dyed it and dripped down his spine. And the wound, half-hidden underneath.
"Yes," she says. Then doubts. "I think so."
She pushes the lower hem of the undershirt up. The stained fabric bunches by his nape. The light from the screen moves across his back. She sees it properly for the first time âthe wound and the days it has traveled through. The bruising has spread, dark against pale skin. The edges are ragged where the blade pushed and pulled. It has begun to close on its own, badly.
Her fingers press carefully around it. He breathes in.
"Itâs warm," she says. "Bruised... Open."
"Itâs alright."
For a brief moment, she wonders what he would have done with his injury if she wasnât there. If she had left. If he were alone. But it makes no difference to speculate.
She threads the needle by the light of the moving picture. Burns the tip with a match, blows it cool. On the screen, the leading man is saying something to the leading lady that makes the two women near the front lean toward each other.
She doesn't listen. She is looking at the wound.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're anticipating it."
A pause. Then, deliberately, his shoulders begin to drop.
She works carefully. Not quickly âquickly would be careless âbut without hesitation. The needle goes in. She watches where it goes. She licks her thumb. Wipes thin red drops.
The screen fills with light as a door opens in the scene. For a moment his bare back is fully illuminated once more âthe old scars, the new damage, the whole accumulated history of him. Then the scene changes, and the darkness returns.
She ties off the first knot. He doesn't move.
"The hardware store," she says. "Three blocks before."
He is quiet for a moment. Processing which part she means âthe location, or the decision itself.
"I remember," he says. "Itâs small."
"One door." She draws the thread through again. "One clerk. The customers were buying few things. But there were four."
"No police nearby." He breathes out. "Evening."
"When the till is full." She pauses, needle hovering. "And quieter."
"Fewer people on the street to see us leave."
On the screen, the moonlit garden has given way to a penthouse suite. Someone is lying. The two women near the front have gone still, absorbed.
"You mustn't linger on him," he says. "If he tries to talkâ"
"I won't listen."
"Eyes on him. Always."
"I know." Another stitch. She feels him tense, and waits for it to pass before continuing. "Have you ever done this?"
He considers how to answer. "Not for money."
That doesnât satisfy her curiosity, but she accepts this without comment. Her thumb presses the thread flat against his skin, checking the tension.
"What if the clerk won't comply?" she asks.
"He will."
"What if he doesn't?"
The screen brightens. They are briefly lit again. Then the scene shifts.
"He will," he says again.
Not dismissal, nor reassurance. Certainty. The particular certainty of someone who understands how bodies respond to intimidation. How quickly confidence becomes cooperation when the threat is clear. She knows a version of it âhow to impose her will.
She nods, though he can't see her.
"Donât make trouble," she says quietly. He tenses âis confused for a moment. Soon enough he realizes she is practicing her lines. "Donât âmake âtrouble."
The needle goes in once more. He doesnât feel it. Or, rather, he feels it âbut the sting has become steady. Easy to absorb.
"Then we move quickly," she says. "Before anyone thinks to call."
"Yes."
"And we change the coats back."
A pause. "Yes."
She ties the final knot. Checks it. Presses her thumb once more against the closed seam âfirm, even, holding. She cleans her hands on the inside hem of her dress, where the stain won't show.
He doesn't move. His hands are loose between his knees now, no longer gripped. She can feel the shift in him.
"There."
He exhales. Longer this time. She sits back, and for a moment simply looks at what she has done. The neat line, the wound made smaller, manageable, hers to have fixed. She knows how to sew, it seems.
He straightens slowly. Rolls his shoulder once, testing. She watches.
"It holds," he says.
She hands him his shirt. He pulls it on, then the jacket, then reaches for the coat. She watches him button it, all the way to the collar âthe wound disappearing layer by layer until there is no evidence of it at all.
On the screen, the lying has been discovered. The leading lady stands very still, eyes wide open, while someone speaks to her. The two women near the front make a small sound.
She looks at the screen for a moment. Then down.
He turns his head slightly. He considers her profile in the shifting light.
"Who was Ida?"
She hesitates. "I don't know."
He remains quiet for a moment. "You know her name."
"I donât know who she was," she says simply. "I just know her name."
He considers her answer. It is strange âto notice a lie. "A memory?"
She nods. "Just her name."
"... They think that itâs you."
He watches her. She is still looking to the screen, though not at it.
"That is not you," he says softly.
"No," she agrees. "That could be me."
She knows that she and Ida are not the same. Yet they overlap.
The leading lady on the screen has composed herself. Whatever was said to her, she has already decided what to do about it.
She watches this. Something in her expression shifts âsmall, private. Then she looks at him.
He is already looking at her.
On the screen, the penthouse dissolves. A new set materializes out of light and shadow âa grand ballroom, pillars draped in white, smartly dressed couples. An orchestra plays from somewhere beyond the frame. The leading man extends his hand. The leading lady takes it reluctantly. Yet it seems as if she had been waiting for precisely this gesture her entire life.
They begin to dance.
It is the kind of dancing that exists only in pictures âtoo smooth, too certain, the bodies moving as though gravity has agreed to cooperate. The camera finds them from a certain distance, then closer: his hand at the small of her back, her face almost touching his, both of them turning slowly through a world that has been built entirely to contain them.
The two women near the front have gone quiet. The sleeping man hasn't stirred. The screen fills with the sweep of it âthe orchestra climbing, the couple turning, and turning, and turning.
Something arrives gradually. A key change in a song she has never consciously learned.
An invisible choir announces the opening notes. The melody comes first âsomething faintly like this, or something near this. The shape of the music arriving before the lyrics. Then the words follow: not retrieved, but simply present, as though they had been just beneath the surface, waiting for the right kind of light to find them.
"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic, 'til I'm gathered safely in..."
The words are not from the moving picture âthey are hers âor rather, they come from her. Not set in a ballroom. Set in a distant shadowed room, with worn wooden floors, with a small band playing, with warmth and laughs and familiarity that doesnât belong to her.
She does not sing the words aloud. It moves through her in silence. She feels the rhythm of it settle into her chest, her wrists, the base of her throat. Her left foot shifts, barely, in a step she half remembers. The brace answers, a small cold sound in the dark.
On the screen, the leading lady begins to smile. A charming smile, bright and uncomplicated. The other couples disappear. The leading man pulls her closer. They turn again.
And then âsilently, without effort, as simple as a cut âthe picture changes.
It is still the ballroom. The painted night sky is still there, along the slow sweep of the orchestra. But the couple on the screen is no longer the leading man and the leading lady. It is them.
She is in a white silk dress ânot torn, not stained. Clean and whole. The brace is still there âshe can feel its weight, its familiar cold against her leg âand yet it does not matter. Or, rather, it matters differently: it is simply part of how she moves, one more instrument in the arrangement.
He is in his black coat, his hat gone, his face fully visible and unguarded. The scars are there. All of it is there. And none of it is hidden.
She extends her hand. He takes it.
They move together across the ballroom floor. Her feet know exactly where to go. Not despite the brace âwith it, through it, the metal becoming part of the rhythm, the slight drag of it folding into the step rather than interrupting it. She is not compensating. She is simply dancing. And she is graceful in a way that lies somewhere between fantasy and reality.
He moves beside her with a steadiness that is all his own. Not the fluid ease of the leading man on the screen âsomething slower, more deliberate, more honest. Each step considered, and then taken fully. His hand in hers is warm. The other rests at her waist, and does not waver.
They do not speak. They sing.
His voice is low, the same deep unpolished rumble that first reached her through the walls of that long hallway. Hers is the voice that learned itself on gramophone records, that practiced in conservatory rooms. Together they are imperfect, soft, and entirely matched.
"Show me slowly what I only know the limits of Dance me to the end of love..."
The ballroom turns around them. The pillars remain upright. The orchestra plays on.
"Oh, both of us beneath our love, both of us above And dance me to the end of love..."
In her imagining, she does not look at his scars. She looks at his face âhim, unguarded âand finds that she knows it. Not from before, not from their shared lives. She knows it the way the body knows a rhythm it has never been taught: immediately, and without question.
The couple on the screen move as though belonging together were simple.
She blinks. The glittering ballroom goes. The pillars, the painted sky goes. The white silk and the unguarded face and the warm hand at her waist âall of it recedes in a gentle fadeout.
What remains is the dark theater: the worn seat, the smell of old smoke and popcorn. She becomes aware of her hands in her lap. The particular cold of the brace, which has barely warmed to her body since they sat down.
Beside her, he has not moved.
She doesn't look at him. She straightens the coat instead, smoothing the lapel with the flat of her hand. She checks the inner pocket âthe sewing kit, the remaining coins, the folded tickets from the last train. Kept for no reason except that discarding them felt premature.
"We should leave," she says. "Before it ends."
He nods. Cautiously, he rises beside her, reaching for his hat. He settles it on, adjusts the brim. Then the scarf, drawn up again over the lower half of his face. Layer by layer, the familiar arrangement. She watches this, as she has watched it before.
She steps into the narrow aisle. The brace creaks âtoo loud âand the theater, mostly empty, still manages to absorb the sound. It is soon drowned by the dialogues of a misunderstanding. He follows close behind her.
They move through the lobby without stopping. Brass handles, cold. The street opens before them.
The afternoon has flattened. The light is lower now, thinner, the kind that gives everything a grey equality. She can feel it in the temperature âthe particular drop that comes in the hour before dusk, when the city begins to shift registers.
Good, she thinks. This is the light they need.
They walk without discussing it. There is nothing left to discuss. The plan exists between them now in the form of action rather than words. Each block bringing them closer.
Three blocks. Two. She begins to note the things she noted before, more carefully now. The spacing of the streetlamps. The rhythm of foot traffic âthinner now, the workers who had filled the sidewalks at lunch dispersed back into their routines. A delivery truck blocking the far corner, which was not there before. She files it. It could be useful or it could be an obstacle. It depends on what happens inside. Not everything can be accounted for.
He is watching the street the same way. She can feel it in the pace of him, the angle of his attention.
One block.
They stop at the corner. Across the street, the hardware store sits in its ordinariness âdark window, faded sign. Through the glass she can barely make out the shape of the counter, the shelving on the far wall, the till. One figure behind the counter. No customers. The door is closed.
They exchange the coats there on the corner, quickly, without ceremony. The wool settles over her shoulders. The leather takes him back. She buttons the coat. He adjusts the collar.
She reaches into the coat âher coat, the wool one, still warm from the theater âand almost draws out the gun. Leaves it, halfway inside the dark of the pocket. Checks it, the way she has seen him check it. The cylinder turns. Six. She returns it to its place.
She looks at him.
"Ready?"
He holds her gaze. The word doesn't come âit isn't needed. He gives one small nod.
They cross the street.
They enter the store.
A new bell. It echoes, then quietens.
The clerk looks up. A man of middle age, comfortable behind his counter, with the particular ease of someone who has stood in the same place for many years.
"What can I help you with, ma'am?"
She doesn't answer. She doesnât waste time. She pushes her pocket forward. Keeps her voice low and even.
"Don't make trouble." The words come out easily.
The clerk takes a moment. Sees the shape of it through the wool. Looks up at her face. Dark, confident eyes, fixed on him. A pause âand then, strangely, he smiles. Not a large smile. The small, patient smile of a man who thinks he can properly recognize danger.
"Pleaseâ"
She draws the gun. Sets her jaw. The smile goes.
"The money."
He glances past her at him. He stands just inside the door, filling it, his face fully visible and offering nothing. He nods once.
The clerk opens the drawer. Takes a few bills out. Places them on the counter.
"You kids don't want this."
She hesitates. Only for a moment. Then she grins, in a manner that means she has already decided. She moves the gun closer.
The clerk doesn't say anything further. He takes the rest of the bills from the drawer and she gathers them quickly, stuffing them into the deep pocket of the wool coat.
The bell rings âagain.
He turns. She turns âthen back, immediately, eyes returning to the clerk. A man in a flat cap stands just inside the door. He takes in the room in one sweep âthe clerk, her, him, the gun âand goes very still.
He approaches the man calmly. "Pockets."
The man looks up âat the large scarred man facing him. Then empties the pockets without argument. Two coins, a crumpled bill. He takes all of it. The man steps back tentatively against the wall. He steps forward, turning his head just an inch âeyes still on him. Not another word is needed. The man stays where he is.
She doesn't look at him again. Her attention stays on the clerk, who has both hands on the counter now, eyes shifting and watching the door.
"Don't," she says. The clerk looks at her. She looks back, steps back âgun still aiming âand that is all.
The bell rings once more behind them. The door closes.
They turn left. The streets are nearly empty. The hardware store light disappears behind them. Her stride has lengthened, the brace moving through its rhythm at a pace she doesn't have to think about. He stays beside her, close but not touching. Half a block. A full block.
Another block. She breathes.
"It was so simple," he finally says.
"It was so quick," she says. She is still catching up to it âthe speed of the act, how cleanly it resolved. How little space there had been between the plan and the fact of it.
She pulls her hand from her pocket. A fistful of bills, slightly crumpled. He moves closer âangling his body toward her âshielding her from the street.
"Not here."
Her hand goes back into the pocket. They keep walking.
"How much do you think we have?"
He considers. "Enough for several days. A week, perhaps more."
"Maybe two."
She thinks of the clerk. How he complied with barely a protest. No struggle, no effort. Just obedience. She pictures herself through his eyes: a dangerous fugitive, a woman wanted, a violent criminal. Half of a murder pair.
"He will call the police. If he hasn't already," she says, slowing down. "They will remember us."
They stop. She gazes at him. He lowers his scarf.
"We are remembered regardless."
He touches her sleeve. She looks down, then nods. There is something almost freeing in the fact of it.
They walk on. The evening has arrived fully now, the streetlamps burning gold against a sky gone the color of old cold water. Her pocket is heavy and warm. Full. She thinks of music. Of food. Of the relief of a night spent somewhere in shelter.
"Now we can do anything," she declares. "We have the money. We can âanything."
The certainty in her voice is almost enough to make it true.
He turns to her. Something has shifted in his face. Not relaxed, exactly, but less defended than usual. Less prepared. Almost disarmed.
She looks at him, and smiles. The crooked one. The one that stills him.
"Anything."
For a moment he only looks at her.Â
He holds her face and kisses her, right there on the pavement, with the thin evening crowd moving around them and the lamplight catching the pale mess of her hair. He surprises himself. She can feel that in it âthe slight astonishment of his own impulse.
She stays still for a moment. Surprised, too.
He pulls back. Looks at her. Not quite certain what he will find.
She frowns. Thereâs a small jerk of the head, not exactly a wince. Then the frown dissolves, and she laughs âand quickly kisses him back.
The street continues around them, indifferent and alive.
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1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
The waitress returns. Waits. There is a pause before they realize what is expected.
The money looks smaller once it is outside their pockets. Folded bills. Dirty coins. The remains of almost a week. It had seemed sufficient, when found and hidden away.
On the tabletop, though, it looks fragile. The cost of an hour of warmth.
The waitress takes the money, and counts it thoroughly. Then counts it again. Nothing else is given or returned ânot even a look.
They stand up. He helps her with the jacket. She dusts his hat before handing it. They leave.
The cold hits them immediately as they step out. The smells return âengine exhaust and wet wool replace burnt coffee and frying oil. The city is busy, though not lively. Boots strike wet pavement. They walk without destination, without hurry. Not too close. But close enough. Theyâre together, visibly so.
âNot much left,â she says quietly. âMaybe enough for tonight.â
âJust tonight.â
Maybe enough for one night in the cheapest room this city offers, if the cheapest room asks nothing for breakfast and the lock works and nobody looks too closely at who's asking. Or enough for two meals and nothing else. Or held in reserve, spent on nothing, until thereâs less, and less, and then the particular silence of an empty pocket.
And still neither one of them can fully regret spending their money on hot food and a quiet seat. It is not regret nor remorse, then âsomething else. The now habitual bitterness underlining the pleasure once itâs over.
She thinks of a bathtub, of warm water. What the price of that specific comfort might be.
Long bitter gusts find every gap in fabric and leather. She pulls the stolen jacket tighter and keeps walking. Her breath comes in small clouds that the wind immediately takes. The brace becomes used once more to the friction of movement. And yet it is cold enough now that she can feel the metal through the leather harness. A chill that presses in at the knee, and doesn't leave.
He slows for a moment. She turns around. He draws a breath before taking brisk strides back to her side.
âAre you alright?â
âYes.â
âYour wound,â she says. âDoes it still hurt?â
He doesnât want to lie. So he simply tells a different truth.
âIt will heal.â
âAre you sure?â
âI can bear it.â
âWe need to fix it.â
âWe donât,â he insists. âItâs alright.â
âItâs not.â
He gazes at her. She stares back.
âItâs not,â she insists, her voice firmer.
He wants to argue. He believes it would make no difference. Yet he knows she will not ask him to accept a doctor. Whatever they do, it will be done between them, and no one else.
The wound throbs softly. It has done so for days now. He breathes in. He remembers her hands. Assessing. Refusing to look away.Â
The morning crowd moves around them. A delivery truck rattles somewhere beyond the next intersection. The city continues with the confidence of a machine that has never once considered stopping. Now, however, they have a mission.
She studies him. The coat hides most of it. The scarf hides more. But she remembers the stab. The blood on the train. The way he shifts his shoulder when he thought she wasn't looking. The careful movements.
The meal sits warm in her stomach. The coffee still lingers on her tongue. The pie, the booth. The brief illusion that they could simply sit somewhere and exist. All paid for.
The total number of their savings means little by itself. It becomes meaningful only when she begins attaching things to it.
Her jaw tightens. The city is suddenly full of prices. Every storefront they pass seems to advertise something. Shoes ânewspapers âcigarettes âcoffee âhaircuts âa night's lodging. And somewhere among those windows and signs is the cost of keeping him alive. She hates how quickly the calculation arrives.
But she is not going to watch him bleed. They cannot afford that either.
She looks down the street. Anything, she thinks. A pharmacy, a drugstore.
Whatever they find âbandages, aspirin, anything to close the wound âit will cost them. They both know it.
The street has filled in around them. More people hurry along the sidewalks. More bodies, more movement âless space between one person and the next. The kind of crowd that makes everyone indistinct.
A grocer has arranged his window with the particular effort of someone trying to make very little look like abundance. A pyramid of tins, a string of dried something, a fold of paper under a bunch of root vegetables to raise them up and give them presence.
She is looking at the grocer's window when she sees it.
Not the window itself âwhat lines the bottom of it. Her eyes rest on a crumpled newspaper page, half beneath a pile of bruised apples. Ink has bled into the cheap paper. The photograph is grainy, more shadow than detail. A shape on the ground. A dark coat bent over it. She frowns. Could be any narrow street.
Then she reads. âChicago murder pair sought by policeââ
He notices her pausing. The words reach him a second late. He immediately comes closer, and reads along.
âSeek missing crippled working girl and scarred companion a woman with a leg brace along a large man with a black leather coatââ
She shifts her weight. The brace answers, cold metal against leather. He turns and looks around.
She continues, barely lowering her voice. âA couple matching the same description was seen earlier at a night club where witnesses identified the woman as identical to Ida Bolinski missing since late Decemberââ
âIda.â
He remembers her saying the name. She remembers sharing it.
She looks away first. He follows, turning to face her. They stay still, silent. A grocer comes out, with a cigarette and a glance.
âDo you need anything?â the grocer asks. A neutral voice. Routine.
âNo,â she says. She read enough.
He pulls her arm. Gentle âurgent. âLetâs go.â
They walk away carefully. The street is the same. The people are the same. But such a realization, she learns, has a way to heighten perception.
Everyone is a witness. She understands this in a way she didn't an hour ago. The clerk at the theater. The men in the shantytown. The woman who swept her stoop and looked once and looked away. The young couple on the train who whispered. All of it retroactively reorganized. Evidence, accumulating.
She thinks of green and white walls. Of the smell of ozone and ether. Of cold hands. Of the unnatural white light âand the quiet feeling of being erased.
I will not go back to the white void. It is not a decision âit is merely a fact. She will not be reset, reduced, corrected. She will be herself. Whatever that means. However long it takes to find out.
And the name comes back to her, like a soft pressure returning to a bruise.
Ida. Now Ida Bolinski. A woman missing since late December. A woman who might have frequented nightclubs, who might have worn a blue dress, who might have smoked easily. A woman with a history. Settled, with a designated place, and with people who noticed when she disappeared.
Her hand slips into her pocket. A finger strokes the sharp edge of the mirror shard. She knows that is not her. She is also aware that she wears her face.
She had been curious about the idea of being legible. Being defined. But not like this.
They stay silent as they cross the road. Only then she picks up the pace. A rusty creak. His heavy steps. The bruises on her knees. The blood under his nails.
He sets his jaw. His hand closes into a fist.
âI should haveââ
âItâs late for that,â she mutters. âIt would make no difference.â
She stops. He stops too. She looks at him, up and down, and an idea arrives.
âYour coat,â she says. âYou can wear mine.â
They remove, then exchange their stolen coats. Hers fits tight on him. His is loose on her. But it helps somewhat. The leather coat now covers her legs. The scarf and hat still cover his face. The weight of the gun pulls down from his right shoulder. The wound winces âthe sting lasts half a second.
She buttons the coat to fully drown the sheen of silk. Her fingers briefly stroke the soft heavy leather. It smells warm, earthy. Like him. It is comforting, in a way she does not want to linger on.
âA train,â she remembers. The few remaining bills tucked in the breast pocket. âDo we have enough?â
âBarely. But even anywhereâŚâ
âThings wonât change.â
He adjusts the scarf. âThey might be waiting. At the station.â
âAt a hotel. Anywhere.â
They have left that city. But it wouldnât be so easy, despite the change of scenery. It dawns on them âthe full extent of the consequences. What has happened. What will happen, if they are caught.
Her hand reaches down to grip his.
âWe will not go back.â
He grips it back. He keeps his eyes low. Then faces her. The determination in her eyes serves as a gentle comfort.
She is still gripping his hand as they keep on walking. He is still looking at her.
The newspaper has confirmed a simple fact: he will always be hunted. And yet it has also served as a reminder that she is being hunted, too. It is his fault âhis killing. It is also hers âher threat. Her boldness. Her refusal to comply. Her insistence on being someone who, when threatened, does not flinch nor retreat. Someone who plans.
She can see him accounting for the street behind her âthe foot traffic, the sightlines, the distance to the nearest corner. His guard has snapped back into place.
Nobody lingers on them for now. Four men in denim, holding their empty lunch pails, head in the opposite direction. Workers. Paychecks. Routines. Wives and children, perhaps. The ordinary life.
They belong here, he reminds himself. And while we do not, we will remain. They have decided it.
And still, a quiet idea appears. If he vanished now, she might still have a chance.
The thought arrives and dies almost immediately. Neither of them would permit it.
âThere.â
A drugstore advertises itself across the street. DRUGS, in faded gold. They head toward it, as she briefly scans the windows. Patent medicines, shaving brushes, boxes of soap. A single light burning.
A bell gives a small, tired ring. And yet their arrival is still announced âexposed.
Tall shelves line the walls, crowded with tins, boxes, packets, stacked unevenly. Dark wooden floors, worn smooth, creak under their feet. The interior is narrow, and deeper than it is wide. The light is warm and dim: not the sort of light that exposes, but the light that achieves the bare minimum. He hopes it can work in their favor.
Behind a long polished counter stands a shopkeeper. Middle-aged, wearing a white coat, wire-rim glasses. A foolish hope presents itself: perhaps the man won't look closely... And then the shopkeeper looks up. They both look aside. Normal, as normal as they can.
A shrill womanâs voice cries. She jumps.
âBut surely, Margaret, you cannot mean to leave him nowâ!â
Her shoulders slowly drop. The voice comes from a battered radio behind the counter. A loud musical cue follows. She stares at the radio cabinet for a moment longer, before her attention returns to him.
He wanders through the shelves. Beyond the radio, the drugstore is quiet, seems empty. No crowd to get lost in. No more eyes to linger on them. He glances over his shoulder. The shopkeeper is adding figures on a ledger. Busy. She comes close to him, shoulder pressed against his. They continue their way down the aisle, with their back to the counter.
"You don't understand, Robert,â the voice weeps. âA future without you is no future at allâ"Â
âWhat do we need?â she asks quietly.
âSomething to close the wound.â
âBandages?â she offers. She doesnât know. She expects him to. âWhat else?â
He has no answer. She sighs. There is the option to ask the sole other customer, or perhaps ask the shopkeeper himself. She quickly decides against it. They have already been seen ânoticed âregistered. If asked, they will mention them. But there is no need to give them more reasons to remember them.
Perhaps, she tells herself, they can move by quietly, try their best at being forgotten. Or leave. Would that be more suspicious?
She sees him, showing small, brief glimpses of tension. He is increasingly failing at acting normal. So is she.
She glances at the shopkeeper. Round reading glasses face the ledger, but the grey eyes behind follow them. Not fearful, not yet. Only aware. It stands to reason that he has not read the news.
He rubs the quarters in his pocket. Regards the gun in his pocket. And she keeps searching for gauze. An unnecessary expense.
The newspaper had settled it âthey have been labeled as criminals now. Criminals with only a handful of coins. Every penny counts.
She decides that the shopkeeper wouldnât notice one sewing kit missing.
Nearby, a woman wrapped in a shawl finds a bottle of cough syrup at the far end of the store. Turns it, reads the label. Too distracted, it seems, to notice them.
He breathes carefully. Lingers near her, but not too near. She reaches for a small cardboard box âthe bandages. She picks it up, examines it, then shows it to him. He nods.
The woman with the shawl opens her purse and counts coins. He rubs his quarters in his pocket.
The bell rings. A man with a grey hat walks in, slow, assessing. Another witness. Someone who might have read the newspaper that week. She turns her face, though her attention remains fixed on the new customer. There is something equally off about him.
The man with the grey hat approaches the counter. Right hand slips into his coat pocket. The fabric tightens around something heavy. A familiar shape.
âDonât make trouble.â
The shopkeeperâs posture changes, then hurries to cooperate. The robber keeps darting glances around the store. Never settling. Always shifting. If this is not the first time, then experience hasnât guaranteed confidence.
A metal drawer snaps open with a ka-ching. The woman with the shawl looks up, already heading toward the counter. Only then the situation fully dawns. Low worn heels stop clacking. The atmosphere settles. Nobody moves, nobody says a word. The awareness doesnât change the circumstances.
The sewing kit is quietly slipped into the pocket of her jacket.
Meanwhile, the crackling speaker continues humming. "If I marry him, my life won't belong to me anymoreâ"Â
The robber grabs the bills. The left hand is free, quick but clumsy. The robber stuffs his left pocket. One bill drops âswears under his breath. Quickly leans down to pick it up âthen stands back up âchecks the room one last time. The bell rings as he leaves. The stillness remains.
âJesus,â the shopkeeper mutters.
She turns to him. He still watches the door. Alert. Slowly, his head turns to face her. A shared look. It holds.
The woman with the shawl breathes out. âWe should call the police.â
The shopkeeper promptly scoffs. She moves closer to him, in a way that could be read as looking for reassurance. He hooks his arm around hers. They leave the store before there is even time to reconsider making the call.
They walk cautiously. Not too fast. Not too slow. He rests his hand on hers. She doesnât move her hand away. The street remains the same, as busy as before. The woman in the shawl quickly hurries past them. The woman might not have recognized them âperhaps simply did not care.
They pass a hardware store. She notices the clerk through the fogged window. Then notices the register. Not the window display âjust how there is one door. Four customers in a line. Payments handed. A sense of politeness, a frail quiet. She notices herself noticing. Then she turns, and keeps moving.
He tells himself that he has never fully belonged in society. That he might never be truly inside it. He thinks of the gun in his pocket, how she had pulled it out when threatened. He wonders if she is thinking of it, too. About the contract that man had broken, and the contract the robber broke, and how he âwe âcannot break a contract they were ever party to.
He holds that thought for a moment longer. He asks whether it is wisdom or rationalization. He has no answer.
She doesnât think of contracts. Neither does she think of society itself. She thinks of the sound of the register opening, and the bills changing hands. She wonders what the robber will use them for.
And then thereâs the exchanges she has been witness to, since they arrived in the city. Movie tickets, a night at a hotel, a train ride, a meal. She makes a thorough inventory. She comes to the conclusion that there is a precise nature in money, an ease to how it allows to move through hostile ground. It can purchase access. It can purchase dignity. Or at least, something close enough.
They have spent days fleeing. Yet every moment of peace they had managed to acquire had been bought.
And money is at last running out.
âWe could do that,â she says.
They donât stop. They still look ahead.
âWe have six bullets,â she continues. âWe wouldnât need one.â
They slow. He stares down and thinks. She knows it, but it takes a moment for him to realize: robbery changes nothing about what we are.
â... You would take the counter,â he mutters. âI would watch the room.â
A car grinds past. He remains silent. Everyone passes by them ânobody is listening in on them. And yet someone could.
âA small store. One person. One witness,â he continues quietly. âEvening, when the till is full.â
âAnd we leave quickly,â she adds. âBefore the police are called.â
They stop. He holds her hand tight.
âItâs a risk.â He must make sure he knows that.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
The rain has left the city cleaner than it deserves.
She notices this first âthe way the pavement holds a faint shine, the gutters running clear, the air carrying less of its weight of exhaust and old grease. She imagines it won't last. By midday the streets will have reasserted themselves, absorbed the rain back into their smell of industry and effort. But for now, in the early morning, this new city offers itself up washed.
She walks beside him. The brace is stiff with cold âit needs time to warm to her body. She gives it that time, shortening her stride, letting the rhythm establish itself. Creak, thump, pause.
The first city had been louder at this hour. This new city feels more horizontal, somehow. Less intensity, less energy. Less vertical ambition.
And, by now, cities have lost their luster. This is not disappointment. It is something quieter âthe recognition that they might be, at their core, repetitions of each other. She had arrived in her first city not knowing any of that. She knows it now.
He walks beside her, his scarf pulled high, his hat brim low. The morning crowd is thin âmen with lunch pails, a woman hurrying with her coat half-buttoned. Nobody looks at them twice. The anonymity of early hours, when everyone is too tired and purposeful to be curious.
He is watching the street, as he always does. But something in his watching is different this morning, she thinks âless surveillance, more observation. The distinction is small and she can't fully articulate it. But itâs there.
Her stomach contracts. She ignores it. She has been ignoring it since they boarded the train, since the chestnuts in the park. Since nearly a week of almost nothing. She believes she can endure. But endurance is not the same as absence of want.
And what she wants is something hot. Something that takes time to eat. She is wondering what might happen if she continues ignoring hungerâ
Then she realizes he is no longer beside her. She canât hear his heavy footsteps anymore.
He has stopped. She follows his gaze.
The window is crowded, cluttered and demanding attention. Musical instruments âa trumpet, a saxophone, a battered violin. Tools âhand tools, a good saw, a level. A fur coat, hanging at the back of the display. Men's suits, properly pressed, with a paper tag. An assortment of jewellery âwedding rings, pocket watches, a strand of pearls. And a handwritten sign propped in the corner of the glass: ALL ITEMS GUARANTEED TOP DOLLAR FOR GOLD WE BUY AND SELL.
He stands there, his back to her. Delicately fogging the glass. As if considering a transaction.
Her hand drifts to her pocket. Her fingers graze the coins, the gun, the shard. She canât part with any of them.
She pays close attention. Only then, faint and unhurried, the music manages to reach her. Swelling strings âfaintly like the records in the conservatory. The cry of a trumpet, much like the nightclub. And the voice âit isnât the melodic chirping of the records, nor the winking hollers of the bandmaster.
It is like the voice from the radio near the train tracks. But not âdirty musicâ. No despair. It sounds like peace, like completion. It sounds like a man speaking a sacred truth.
âAn' you mus' laugh an' sing an' dance For two instead of one... Want no wrinkle on yo' brow, Nohow, Because de sorrow of de past Is all done, done...â
He hasn't moved. But his stillness has changed. She can recognize it. It's not vigilance now, it's something else. Something approaching openness.
She steps closer. The yellow light reaches her. Through the pawnshop window, the phonograph spins.
âWe'll go swingin' Through de years a-singin', Mornin' time an' evenin' time an' Summer time an' winter time...â
He holds his breath. He fears it might obstruct the sound, that it could cause him to miss one single fragile second.
She looks up, beyond the wares. There is a man in the store, sitting still at his desk, pen frozen above an open ledger. The man watches them. And she stares back. Almost wanting to give thanks.
The final piano notes fade. There is a long soft crackle. The needle is lifted. The street is dead quiet.
He does not move at once. Something in his face has gone unguarded. She saw it.
Then he looks at her. It is not a plea. Not apology either. More like a question he canât find the words for, nor the courage.
She holds his gaze for only a moment. Long enough to let him know she saw. Then she turns and starts down the sidewalk, slowly enough that he can follow.
He thinks that the man allowed the song to finish. No rap on the glass, no waving away. Just four minutes, the length of one side of the shellac. It cost the man nothing. Barely a kindness. But it is something. Not a proof of mercy. Perhaps pity, at most. He keeps the melody in his mind like a gift.
Songs lie. He knows that much is true. And yet he canât deny the beauty of the lie âmuch less the appeal of hope.Â
Ahead of him, she keeps walking. She does not look back âyet doesnât hurry, either. He understands she is giving him time.
She allows the distance between them to hold. She wonders what has just happened inside him, that gave him permission to enjoy a small grace. On some level, sheâs glad. She knows what it is like, when a song burrows inside you. Not exactly like the nightclub, not like the records. Something one can linger on.
The sound of their steps returns. His, heavy. Hers, measured. They walk together without speaking. The morning has grown slightly warmer, or else she has simply stopped noticing the cold. Her stomach pulls at her again, more insistent now.
The rhythm of her steps falters. Not enough to stop âjust enough to change. The pause lingers a fraction longer before the next step lands. The brace answers with a dull complaint.
He adjusts without looking at her. Slows half a step to match. Then they resume the pace.
The street carries on around them. A delivery truck rattles past, leaving behind the smell of hot metal and oil. Somewhere ahead, a door opens and closes. She turns her head slightly, not enough to break stride. But she slows as they pass the window.
Thereâs muffled voices, the dull clatter of plates, the scraping of cutlery. Windows are fogged, with condensation frozen around the edges. Warmth presses faintly through the glass.
She has a few coins left. Maybe enough.
âWe can get something outside,â he says. âCheaper. Faster.â
She doesnât answer. She is watching the room âthe way bodies lean, the way hands wrap around cups. The way food steams, and is quickly eaten. He can see her dark eyes through her reflection.
âThereâs a vendor across the street,â he adds. âIt will be enough.â
âFor you.â
A pause. The door opens briefly âsomeone leaving âand a spill of heat and noise pushes against the cold. The door is closed again.
âYou can wait for me outside.â
An option. He considers it. He imagines a brief breakfast on the street âthe relief of anonymity, the safety of not being enclosed, not being looked at, not having to occupy space among people who belong to it. He imagines standing with a paper-wrapped meal, eating without being seen.
He also imagines eating beside her, inside âthe possibility of temporary shelter. Not welcoming, but perhaps providing its own sort of comfort. At least, that of company âthat which he still canât take for granted.
Then he imagines her inside, alone. Watched. Confronted. Provoked. The thought settles differently.
She has already decided. Her hand finds the door without hesitation. She opens it, and the warmth spills out again âstronger this time. She steps in. The door begins to swing shut behind her.
He reaches for it before it closes.
A bell rings. The heat is dry. The smell of slightly burnt coffee and grease is strong, almost overwhelming. Natural light drifts in through the windows; everything feels slightly muted, softened by warmth and steam. She has slowed down, assessing the seating alternatives. A counter with stools. A few tables. Small booths âthe one at the far end of the diner is empty, waiting.
She glances at him behind her. He looks at her from under the brim of his hat. The brace creaks, too loud in the quiet. Her boots click on the scuffed linoleum as she heads towards her choice.
He looks around. A man in a sweater smokes and reads a newspaper. Two workers dressed in worn denim talk behind empty plates. A mother urges a small child to eat. A waitress stares. Eyes flick to his scarf, his height, his worn shoes. He stands still âexpects a verdict âand, when none comes, he walks to the booth at the far end.
The smoking man slightly lowers his newspaper. One worker stirs his coffee slowly. The mother leans forward towards her child as he passes by.
The booth is narrow. The table between them is fixed, the wood surface worn to a dull shine. She sets her jacket beside her. He keeps his coat on, removes his hat. The scarf remains over half of his face.
âYou can lower it,â she tells him. âThey donât care.â
He glances at the other tables. Their attention seems to be gone, focused on more urgent matters. So, slowly, he pulls the scarf down. He draws in a quiet breath.
The room does not react. A spoon clinks somewhere near the counter. Someone turns a newspaper page.
He exhales.
Then the waitress approaches.
âYou two want something?â
He tenses. The waitress is trying her best to avoid looking at him âher sight is firmly fixed on her instead. So her crooked smile resurfaces, old lipstick cracking at her lips.
âYes, please.â
A silence. He keeps still and his eyes down, mind racing to think of what he is expected to order.
âCoffee,â he finally says. âAnd... toast.â
âAnd eggs, and bacon too,â she asks. Her head swivels and turns to the glass box near the counter. âAnd pie.â
The waitress glances at the glass box, as if having forgotten itâs there. âWe got apple pie, pecan pie, cherry pie, lemon meringue pie...â
âLemon meringue pie,â she repeats, imitating the waitressâ cadence. âYes. That.â
The waitress hesitates for a moment. â... You got the money for that?â
She nods. The movement is not fully smooth.
The waitress shoots her one more look before leaving.
The sounds of the diner gather around them again once she is gone. Cups set down. A chair dragged across linoleum. Someone coughing into a handkerchief. Grease hissing somewhere unseen.
She watches the waitress pin their order to a rail in the kitchen. He watches the room. Morning light presses through the fogged windows in a dull silver wash. It softens the faces around them, but not enough to erase caution. He feels the eyes that land and leave. He keeps his hands flat on the table.
She turns back to him. He sits up straighter.
âI know where I come from.â The white void. The smell of ozone. Nothing before then ânothing she can remember. Nothing certain. âYou were already there.â
That is not a question. He remains silent.
âYou asked for me,â she continues. âWho asked for you?â
He does not answer at once.
The waitress calls something through the kitchen hatch. A plate strikes ceramic. Someone laughs near the counter. His jaw shifts once beneath the scarf.
âA man,â he says at last. âMy creator. He regretted it.â
âA lonely man?â
âA learned man. Ambitious.â
âCruel?â
He looks down at the scratches on the tabletop.
âWeak.â
One thing does not negate the other, she thinks. Still, she accepts this without comment.
âDid he love you?â
âNo.â Immediate. Definitive.
She studies his face after he says it, as if checking whether certainty always sounds so clean.
âAnd what were you before me?â
His thumb shifts against the tabletop grain. Before her.
The years gather badly when called. Snow. Barn lofts. Forest paths. Long roads. Faces turning in fear. Doors barred. Names shouted. Fields. Firelight. Silence.
He had been many things. None worth keeping.
âAlone.âÂ
She expected that answer. She still lets it sit between them for a moment longer.
âIn the alley,â she says, voice softening. âYou knew what to do.â
He looks down at his hands on the table. She does not look away. After a moment, he speaks.
âI have killed before.â
Her expression does not change.
âA young man... A young woman. A child.â
The sounds of the diner continue. Coffee poured. Cutlery set down. Someone asking for more toast.
She wonders if he knew them. If they stood in his way. If they slighted him somehow âor if they were innocent victims of circumstance.
âDo you feel guilty?â
There is a pause. He breathes quietly. She watches him, waiting for his answer.
âThose deaths were useless. Once it was over... it was a waste. I had wanted my creator to feel as I did. Lost. Lonely.â
But then he died âand there was no reward, no relief. His quest had been for nothing.
âI was joyful when I killed,â he admits. âIt gave me purpose. This... reckoning.â
âRetribution.â
âYes,â he says as he nods. â... Yes.â
The word settles between them. She watches him ânot with disdain, not with sympathy. With newfound interest.
âAnd now?â she asks.
He frowns.
â... Now that itâs finished.â
A longer pause. He looks at his hands, as if he might find something new there.
âJust... try to live,â he says, after a moment.
She tilts her head slightly. âWhat else is there to do?â
Two chipped ceramic cups are set between them. He turns his face away towards the window. She offers a new smile, slightly gentler. The waitress doesnât respond to either gesture.
She wraps her fingers around the cup without drinking. The warmth seeps slowly into her hands. She stares at him across the table. The coffee steams between them, gently obscuring his face. She looks for a shape, an explanation, something she can read. He provides nothing, or at least nothing she can translate.
âI thought violence was anger. Or hunger,â she finally says. âBut thatâs a function. You know it. How to live around the hurt. Find purpose in it.â
He looks at her. Surprised by her understanding. Then again, she always did.
âIt was long ago,â he says.
âVery long ago.â
âBefore me. And it sits with you. Here. Now,â she insists in irritation. Then something less sharp follows it. Pity. An impatient kind. âItâs rotting. Itâs useless.â
He frowns. She still stares. Almost defiant.
âYou cannot change it. They are dead. You are alive.â
âYesââ
âGuilt has no purpose. You still killed. And killed again.â
âI learned,â he tries to argue.
âDid you?â
A silence. He swallows. She can see how his teeth grit under the skin.
âRemorse asks little beyond endurance. It explains. It has weight. A name. I can carry itââ
âWhat for?â
His hand tightens once around the coffee cup, then loosens. He has no answer ready. And he feels the shape of her words pressing against something fixed in him âtesting it, not breaking it.
For so long guilt has been the only inheritance he trusted himself to keep. It explained the past, and gave his solitude a shape. It gave weight to what would otherwise be empty.
To set it down would not be relief alone. It would be exposure.
âIf I am not the sum of what I ruined...â He sighs softly. âThen what remains?â
âWhat remains?â she repeats. She canât answer it for him.
He thinks of his existence. Not the events âwhat they left behind. What remains of them. He thinks of the conclusion he has reached âdespite the pain, the ache, and the brief and scarce moments of peace.
His fingers reach a scar on his hand. He lifts his eyes briefly, not to meet hers, but to steady himself enough to speak.
âThis life is a collection of miseries,â he says, voice low but certain. âBut it is mine âit is my life.â
And, she understands, thatâs all it needs to be.
âAre you grateful?â
He turns to look at her.
âI think... I am.â
He is quiet for a moment after he says it. Admitting such a thing has a weight to it.
"... Are you grateful?" he manages to ask back.
The question now feels forceful. A demand. He isnât sure he is even allowed to ask it.
And yet, slowly, she smiles. âYes. I am.â
Not a full answer. But an honest one, and he receives it as such âa small visible loosening in his shoulders, a breath taken and released without the usual caution behind it.
The waitress arrives, setting down plates with brisk efficiency. Eggs, bacon, toast. Porcelain against wood, a brief clatter that draws a glance or two from the nearby tables. She leaves quickly, to refill someone elseâs cup of coffee. The plates sit between them, still giving off heat. For a moment, neither of them moves.
She looks at the eggs first âthe soft yellow, the way they tremble slightly on the plate. Steam rises in thin threads. She picks up her fork, hesitates only briefly, then presses into them. The yolk breaks easily, running into the white. She watches it for a second, before bringing it to her mouth.
The heat surprises her. She inhales through her nose, sharply, then continues chewing. Salt. Fat. Something substantial, filling. More than what she hoped for. Across from her, he has begun more slowly. He tears the toast into smaller pieces before eating it, as if testing the action. His movements are contained, deliberate. He keeps his head slightly lowered, eyes flicking once toward the room before returning to his plate.
She notices. Then doesnât. She takes another bite, larger this time. Then a strip of bacon âcrisp at the edges, resistant at the center. She pulls it apart with her teeth, less carefully now. The fork rests forgotten for a moment in her hand.
He watches that, briefly. Then he stops tearing the toast. He takes a bite directly from the slice instead. The motion is small, but less mediated. He chews, slower than she does, considering the texture as much as the taste. When he reaches for the eggs, it is with less hesitation.
For a few minutes, neither of them speaks.
The sounds of the diner continue around them âcutlery, low voices, the scrape of a chair âbut they recede. The heat of the food settles into her, spreads outward. The tightness in her stomach loosens, replaced by something steadier, heavier.
She leans forward slightly over the plate, no longer measuring the space she occupies. He notices that too. He allows it to himself.
The waitress arrives once more. She straightens slightly without thinking. He stills. The pie slice is set before her, the meringue slightly uneven on one side, the lemon filling catching the light from the window.
She looks at it. He looks at her looking at it. There is a pause in which nothing needs to be said and nothing is.
She picks up her fork. Takes a bite. The tartness hits first, then the sweet âa small surprise that shows on her face, as something shifts in his own expression. Curiosity.
Still sucking on the fork, she looks up at him. Not an invitation, not an offer. He looks back. He picks up his fork âsinks it into the creamy yellow filling âand takes a bite.
âWhat does it taste like?â she asks him.
He considers it for a moment longer. "Bright. Sharp... Then soft."
She takes another bite. The sugar coats her tongue, sticks to her molars. She sucks on them. He eats a little more.
Only then she notices the child at the nearby table. The young boy is watching them âwatching her âopenly, with big, fascinated eyes. She watches him back, swallows quietly. Smacks her lips. The stare begins to shift as she lowers her chin and changes her posture.
A grin begins forming on her face âtoo wide. She draws her lips back suddenly âteeth bared, eyes widened, brows pulled tight. The boy startles, winces âthen whimpers.
Across from her, he looks up âfollows the line of her gaze, understands at once. The laugh comes out of him before he can contain it. Short. Strange. She turns to him âcaught off guard. Then, slowly, pleased.
The boy has already been turned back toward his plate. His mother mutters something low and firm, one hand settling on the back of his head. Itâs rude to stare.
She looks back down at her own plate, as if nothing has happened. But the corner of her mouth shifts. He notices that too.
The morning light has strengthened. It reaches their booth now in a pale band across the table, touching the empty plates, the gleaming forks, the backs of their hands. She watches the light for a moment.Â
âWho would you be?â she asks. âIf you could be anyone?â
He considers her question.Â
â... Iâd be the man in the movie picture,â he says after a brief pause.Â
She tilts her head. âThe poor man or the rich man?â
âThe poor man,â he smiles. âHe got to dance with the pretty lady.â
A simple choice. She believes it suits him âand that he has, in a way, been that man already.
He holds the smile a moment longer, then lets it fade. The question lingers until he decides to turn it back. "Who would you be?â
âAn actress,â she answers quickly. âSo I would be someone new every week.â
âA dancing actress?â
âCertainly.â
That earns a softer laugh from him this time. Her smile widens.
âWould you watch my talkies?â she asks him.
âI would not miss a single one.â
A pause. A truck passes by âthe light shifts slightly across the table.Â
He has a sip of coffee. Itâs cooled now. He doesnât mind.
âWhat would your actress name be?â
This time she doesnât answer at once. Something passes behind her eyes. A name comes to her âa word. Small, humble.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
There is a dull ache in the old scars of his left shoulder. His skin feels just the slightest bit taut. The air has changed. He doesnât look up, not yet. He can feel it coming âa storm is near.
She walks beside him. The brace speaks: creak, thump, pause âcreak, thump, pause. It has been the only voice between them since they stepped off the train. Maybe longer. He has been listening to the rhythm of it, the way it has slowed since they left the station, the way the pause between creak and thump has widened by half a second. Her weight is shifting differently. Exhaustion has finally settled in.
He does not ask. She would not answer. The silence they are carrying is not the one they carried before. That one was legible âa shared language of small glances and smaller smiles. This silence is distance.
He adjusts the scarf over his face. The first drop hits the brim of his hat. Then another, on the back of his exposed hand. The pavement begins to darken in small circles, then in streaks, then all at once.
She does not stop walking. Neither does he.
But the brace is slowing. The pause has become a full second now. Her breath is audible ânot labored, but present. A quiet counter-rhythm to the metal.
They stop under the awning of a store. She huffs quietly. The leather harness has been digging deeper, tighter into her thigh. She picks at the lacing to try and loosen it.
A tapping of a glass startles them both. Behind them âthe store window âa man waves his hand, shoos them off. He stops, however, when he gets a proper look. It doesnât matter. Theyâre already on the move.
He scans the street ahead. There: a concrete overpass, the underbelly of a bridge, shadowed and dry. Figures huddle near the embankment: dark coats, bundled shapes, the occasional glint of a bottle or a set of watching eyes. Perhaps threats. Perhaps not.
She sees it too. She does not ask. She turns, and he follows.
The rain arrives in earnest as they step beneath the concrete. It drums overhead, a sudden roar that makes the silence beneath it feel deeper, more enclosed. The storm doesnât wash away the smells âin there, they feel trapped. Wet cardboard, stale urine. In there, men have unshaven faces, frayed overcoats, broken shoes ruined by slush. They shuffle along in a way she recognizes from somewhere else. Men accustomed to waiting.
He feels as if he might belong there. She isnât so sure.
The men stare, of course. At her, out of the corner of their eyes. He is dangerous to stare at.
He guides her by the elbow âbarely a touch âtoward the far wall. There, the concrete is dry and the overhang is deepest. She does not pull away. She does not lean in. They find a spot near a pillar, out of the wind's reach. The rain keeps roaring beyond the mouth of the underpass. It safely fills the silence.
He turns to look at her. She isnât soaked and weighed down, like on the night of their escape. Her silk dress is dotted by dark raindrops. Her platinum hair is dusted with rain. Her wet skin catches the low light.Â
He stares. Then looks away.
She glances at him. He looks about the same.
The bundled men have lost interest. Her hand drifts absently to her thigh, where the leather bites deepest.
The rain has become loud enough to swallow a conversation whole, if kept small. He notices this.
Then he looks down at her. âYour leg?â
She keeps silent. Her eyes stay forward, on the grey curtain of rain.
He doesn't push. He turns and looks out at the street instead. A bottle rolls over asphalt. One of the bundled shapes tries to polish shoes with spit. Another coughs as if nearing the end. Another has his hat over his face, sitting up, chin to chest. Sleeping.
She finds a dry patch of concrete near the far wall and lowers herself slowly, her back against the cold rough surface, her left leg stretched forward. The brace shrieks once as she settles âthen goes quiet. She doesnât mind the cold ground beneath her. Not too much.
He remains standing. He watches her, pretending not to.
The rain thickens. Its roar fills the underpass, buries them in white noise. When she speaks, her voice is low âbarely above a murmur, aimed at no one visible.
âYou didn't make me.â
Silence returns for a surprised beat. âNo.â
He carefully crouches down beside her. Not close enough to crowd her âclose enough to be heard without raising his voice above the rain.Â
âHow did you earn me?â
The word earns a pause. He knows how it sounds. He also knows it is accurate.
âI complied.â
His words land. Quiet follows. A flash of lightning, the crackle of thunder. Light floods the side of the underpass. Deep shadows against white; then dark again.
â... Was it worth it?â
He doesnât know the answer. He believes he does âbut his belief has proved to be flawed. The response would be painful either way. And he doesnât want to hurt her.
So he says nothing.
Rain strikes the concrete in hard sheets. Somewhere beyond the mouth of the underpass, a car hisses through standing water. One of the bundled men coughs twice, then goes still again.
She watches his silence more than his face. It is answer enough to some questions, and useless for others. But if he cannot speak to value, then perhaps he can still speak to facts. What was chosen. What was taken. What, if anything, had belonged to her before she opened her eyes.
She shifts against the wall. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier.
âDid you know me?â she asks. âBefore.â
âNo.â His voice is flat, certain. âI first saw you when you came to life.â
Her fingers press into the concrete beside her leg. She is deciding whether to believe him âhe can see the calculation in the set of her jaw, the small movement of her eyes. She does not arrive at a verdict. Not yet.
The rain fills the silence she leaves behind. He doesn't press it. He straightens, slowly, and turns back to face the mouth of the underpass. His hands find his pockets. His shoulders settle into their familiar set âwatchful, patient, present.
She watches him for a moment from where she sits. The line of his back. The stillness of him, which is never quite the stillness of rest. Rest.
Then she looks away.
Yellow glows on her right side âa car passing by, or streetlamps flickering on, she assumes. The rainfall hisses like an old radiator. The clinking of the empty bottle acquires a gentler pitch.
She closes her eyes ânot to sleep, only to rest them. The concrete presses cold through her dress. The ache in her leg spreads, dull and heavy, pulling her downward.Â
Someone is speaking. Close. Too close to be outside the rain.
She doesnât remember turning her head.
And yet the words are already there âready to be heard.
âHe's delighted to love me, but you know, I just don't know what to say to him,â a croaky womanâs voice mumbles, quiet and muffled between soft laughs. âI just don't knowââ
The blare of a clarinet startles her.
Warm fingers touch her shoulder. âYou alright, darling?â
A woman with black curls stares at her. She feels her own painted lips twitch for a moment âbefore smiling her crooked smile.
âYeah, of course.â
The woman with black curls smiles back.
The light is wrong for morning and too dim for night. It exists in its own hour. Her eyes need a moment to adjust. Old bulbs âthe kind that should have been replaced long ago âcast a yellow light that flatters nobody and softens everything. She looks around as faces turn from smudges to features. Theyâre sleepless, thoughtful, bordering on desperate, not daring to sink yet. A bartender moves without hurry at the far end. The place is both business and shelter.
She knows, however, that safety is never guaranteed.
Thereâs the smell that reminds her of the nightclub âonly difference is the scent of old beer soaked into wood, the particular staleness of a room that never fully empties. The air is dense âit feels used.
Low murmurs are layered over the constant hiss of a radiator. Thereâs the clink of glass, a cough that repeats every few minutes from the same corner, a chair dragging slowly across the uneven floor. It never goes silent âbut it never rises into chatter either.
And in between the hum, there is one voice. It slurs words, pushing through the haze of liquor and smoke.
âHeard it on the radio, it's no good Heard it on the radio, it's news to me When she gets somethinâ, it's understood Baby's got somethin' she's not used to...â
Beyond their table, a singer performs on a small stage, singing for her supper. Dressed in a slip of a dress. Shadows sharpen her clavicle and shoulders. The voice is raw, restless, rugged ârough. She likes it. Nobody else seems to mind her.
Her eyes casually wander as she takes in her surroundings. It is a narrow room, with a low ceiling that traps the smoke of old cigarettes. Behind the bar, a woman in a dirty mirror turns to face her just as she does the same. The woman has dark roots âperoxide blonde âcombed neatly into waves. Still, a few stray hairs have slipped out. She fixes them for her.
She is seated at a small round table, her fingers resting on its surface âwood worn smooth at the edges, marked with cigarette burns and old knife scratches. She knows this table. Not from memory, exactly. From the body. The way she doesn't have to think before settling her weight into the chair. The way her elbow finds the exact spot where the varnish has worn through to bare grain.
She turns to look at the men across the table.
The older one is settled into his chair the way men settle when they believe they've already won something. Loose shoulders, a half-smile that doesn't reach the eyes. He is looking at her friend with the particular attention of someone who has done this before and knows what he is doing. Her friend knows it too âshe can tell from the angle of her chin, the slight tilt that says I see you seeing me.
The younger one is watching her.
He is perhaps twenty-five. His jacket is too new, his collar too carefully pressed for this hour and this place. He holds his glass with both hands, as if it might escape. His eyes move to her face and then away, then back again âa small orbit, helpless and recurring. When she meets his gaze directly he doesn't look away fast enough and his ears go pink.
Eager. Anxious. Trying to appear otherwise. Not dangerous âthe dangerous ones don't fidget, she knows it. He is simply young, and hopeful, and slightly out of his depth. I am the reason.
She finds she knows what to do with that.
She reaches for her cigarette âit is already there, resting in the groove of the ashtray, a thin line of smoke rising from the tip. She lifts it to her lips and draws in slowly. The exhale comes just as naturally. She watches the younger man watch the smoke leave her mouth. She understands that she is, in this room, at this table, in this body that moves without asking permission, entirely fluent.
That is the word for it. Fluent.
Not happy, not free âthose are too large, too final. But fluent. She speaks this language without translation. She laughs at the right moment âa low sound, private, not performed. She meets the older man's eye when he makes a joke and gives him just enough to satisfy without encouraging.
The music shifts. The singer begins another verse, slower this time, almost conversational. She becomes aware, in the new tempo, of her own stillness âthe way she is simply sitting, simply here, without calculation or effort.
Her hand moves across her lap. Her dress is not her rust-orange âit is a bright, almost electric blue. She runs her hand over the soft fabric, just once. She canât recall who gave it to her.
â... Donât you agree?â
The younger man is looking at her, eyebrows raised. Waits for an answer to a question she didn't hear.
She blinks. âSorry. I was somewhere else.â
The three of them chuckle. She chuckles, too. They reach for their glasses. The younger man pours her something amber from a dusty bottle.
âWhat should we toast to?â
They look at her. She takes a moment âthen smiles and picks up her glass.
âTo life.â
Thatâs good, she thinks. Vague enough. True enough.
âTo life!â
She shifts in her seat as she leans forward. And then she feels it.
Not an absence, exactly. More like a silence where sound should be. She becomes aware of it âher left leg. No pull of leather, no press of metal, no low persistent ache. Nothing but flesh.
She looks down. The blue dress falls cleanly to her knee. Below it, a leg. Just a leg âred stocking, black heel. She stares at it.
The younger man notices. "Something wrong?"
"No," she answers, almost like a question.
She flexes her foot. The movement is easy, immediate âanswering her before she finishes asking. She does it again. The response is the same. No delay. No negotiation.
Something moves through her chest. Not grief. Not joy.
She wants to stand up.
The thought arrives complete, urgent, unreasoning: she wants to stand up and walk to the center of the room and feel this body move the way it knows how to move. She wants to find out how far it will go. She wants to dance.
She pushes her chair back an inch.
The older man glances at her. A mild curiosity, nothing more âhe has seen stranger things at this hour. But the younger man leans forward. His hand moves to the edge of the table ânot touching her, not yet âan uncertain, hovering thing.
"Hey," he calls. "Hey, where are you going?"
She doesn't answer him. She is already somewhere else.
She stands. The leg holds. She takes one step away from the table and the floor meets her evenly, without the compensating shift of weight. She takes another step. And another.
She is walking across the bar âforward, continuous, uninterrupted.
The singer on the small stage watches her from under heavy lids. The song doesn't stop: it gains momentum, becomes wilder. More like a confession, an invocation. A dare.
âGoin' on the corner, I'm gonna score Baby wants somethin', she's in the mood to Baby wants somethin', I want more When I don't get it, I get blue, blue...â
She reaches the open space near the stage and turns around. The room looks different from here âsmaller, contained, the low light pooling on the faces at the tables, the smoke drifting in slow columns. She can see her friend's dark curls, the older man's settled shoulders, the younger man half-risen from his chair âhis collar still too pressed âhis expression caught between wanting her back and not knowing how to ask.
âCâmonââ
He reaches out to grab her arm âshe yanks it away.
âI wanna danceââ
This music is not meant to be danced to. But it does have a rhythm, a pace, slow and brooding.
Her foot finds the beat.
It is so easy. Not painful, not bittersweet âjust easy, and that ease is the most foreign thing she has encountered in any room in any city. Her hips move without the half-beat delay. Her arms lift without calculating the distance. She turns once, cleanly, her heel finding the floor without apology, without the screech of metal on metal, without the practiced rebalancing that has become as involuntary as breathing.
Her eyes close as her body sways. Shoulders roll slowly, and the rest of her follows. A leg drags across the floor in a smooth glide. Fluid movement. No pain. No constraints.
She bends backwards, as a heel follows the low thrum of a bass line. Arms stretch, wrists circle, thighs tighten. The singerâs voice turns into a hoarse cry âshe longs, longs for something, something unnamed. She thinks of what she longs for. She longs for so much.
She turns again.
And a voice calls: âIda!â
And she sees herself.
Not in a mirror. In the sensation of it âthe seam. And the bar lights flicker âand for a moment the yellow bulbs are the cold white of a train car, and the singer's voice is his voice, low in her ear âand the smoke is steam rising from a radiator in a warm narrow room âand the floor beneath her feet is pavement covered in slush âand the woman with black curls is gone âand she steps forward âshe is crossing a muddy field, lightning splits the sky, and she is looking upâ
The streets. The cold. The rain.
The brace.
It comes back before she does. The weight of it first âfaithful, unasked-for âand then the ache beneath it, the leather worn into the shape of her, the metal that has come to feel like a second skeleton. She feels it before she opens her eyes. Her body has already returned. It was waiting for her.
The bar dims. The smoke dissolves mid-reach. The last thing she carries back is the name.
She opens her eyes to concrete and rain.
The underpass holds its particular dark ânot the dark of closed curtains or shuttered rooms, but the dark of a place that has never quite been light. The rain is quieter, fading.
Her leg is there. The brace announces itself immediately âcold metal, damp leather, the low throb beneath the harness. She breathes through it. The concrete is hard against her back. Her neck has stiffened where her head dropped to the side.
She blinks. Once. Twice.
He is there.
His back is against the pillar at the edge of their space. His hat is pulled low. She can tell from the set of his shoulders that he has not slept. He is not resting. He is simply waiting in a different position.
One of the bundled shapes nearby has shifted in the night, drawing closer to the wall. Another is gone entirely, slipped away into the rain at some point. The man with the hat over his face is still there, still breathing âshe can see the slow rise and fall of his chest from here.
She sits up. The movement is slow, deliberate âher body ordering its complaints in order of severity. The brace, the hip, the stiffness in her lower back, the faint pulse at her knee. She catalogs them calmly. They are familiar. They are hers.
He hears the shift of fabric, the small sound of her waking. Turns his head.
She meets his eyes briefly. Then looks away, toward the mouth of the underpass.
The rain has left the street dark and gleaming. A streetlamp reflects in a long puddle, its light stretched and trembling. The air is cleaner now âthe wet stone smell has thinned, replaced by something cooler, less trapped. Almost like the field outside the city, that first night. Almost ânot quite.
She could tell him. She knows how it would go. She canât predict his words exactly, but she knows the shape of his caution. The way it moves through him, the particular set of his jaw when he is trying to protect her.
He would listen. He would wait until she finished. And then he would tell her âquietly, not unkindly âthat memories are like songs. Lies. That she cannot trust the door they open. That the woman in the blue dress might not be real.
He might not be wrong.
She turns the dream over once more. The peroxide curls, the easy walk, the younger man's helpless eyes, the name cutting through the smoke-filled air. The way the leg moved. The way the room knew her.
She shifts âthereâs a slight high-pitched creak, distinct from her brace. Glass, not metal. More fragile. Her hand drifts to her pocket. The mirror shard rests there, cool against her fingers.
She lifts it slightly, just enough to catch a fragment of herself âan eye, the curve of her cheek, incomplete. A strand of hair has come loose.
She stills. Then âslowly, deliberately âsmooths it back into place.
She lowers the shard. For a moment, her hand lingers at her pocket âbefore slipping it back inside.
She looks back at him.
He is still watching her, patient and still. The question is present in his face. A faint trace of worry.
âThe rain is stopping,â she says.
His eyes move to the street. Back to her.
He reaches a hand down to help her up. She looks at it âthe broken knuckles, the old stains, the familiar map of his scars âand takes it. The brace groans as she rises, loud in the quiet underpass. She steadies herself, hand briefly tightening on his before releasing.
She straightens her jacket. He straightens his hat. Then she steps out first, into the thin remaining rain.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
The space between them grows quiet. A new type of silence.
The train continues to carry them forward, iron wheels grinding beneath the floor. Around them, people shift, cough, murmur to one another. They remain still.
He watches her. He cannot tell whether she is angry, wounded, or thinking: for a moment, she has become a stranger. Her head hangs. Her breathing becomes only the slightest bit hurried. Her hands rest loosely in her lap. She does not look at him.
He waits. For her verdict, for her rage, for her disappointment âfor anything.
Then she moves.
She rises from her seat. He looks up at her as his fingers squeeze his knees. She falters, but soon enough steadies her posture and synchronizes her movement to that of the car. She limps down the aisle before he can say anything else. Legs pull away, turning hurriedly to clear her path. She doesnât look back âthough she does listen for any nearby footsteps.Â
Is he following?
He isnât. He wants to, desperately. But he doesnât. He can hear her voice ââstep backâ, âgo awayâ âeven in her absence. If he stays, he stays away. And yet âshe might return. He chooses to delay the decision. He hopes she hasnât made it yet.
Still, every minute that passes âitâs a suture being pulled from an old wound.
She keeps moving.
She needs to stop, though, once she faces the end of the aisle. The small wooden door resists her. She leans into it, shoulder first, then corrects, sets her foot more carefully. The door is stiff, but it yields.
The vestibule is louder than she expects. The rails hammer beneath her boots. The metal floor clangs. Wind slips in through the seams âsharp and insistent. A pause, a gap. The floor shudders beneath her âthe metal railing cold enough to sting. She still grips it tight, knuckles turning white. Each step is measured. Her weight shifts as she becomes used to the aggressive sway. The brace answers with a small complaint.
The next door opens onto the coach where the women are gathered. Quiet. Contained. The air is different here âstill crowded, but softer, somehow. The smell is wool and soap and faint perfume. There is less smoke. Less movement. People sit more upright.
A few heads lift when she enters. Not alarm âassessment.
She feels it immediately, the way she felt the mirrorâs gaze in the washroom. Her dress is too bright for this space, even dulled by wear and grime. The orange silk catches the light ârefuses to behave. The hem brushes her right leg unevenly. One blue stocking is stretched and ripped; the other is stained darker at the knee. The brace creaks as she steps forward, metal answering metal.
No one says anything. They donât need to.
A woman near the aisle shifts her feet to make room. Another pulls her coat a little closer around herself. An infant with brown curls is asleep with her head against someoneâs chest, mouth open, snoring quietly.
She is even more noticeable standing in the middle of the aisle. She finds an empty seat halfway down. She pats down her frizzy hair out of habit, though it makes little difference.
The clinking of coins is muffled by the wool. The shard of mirror digs into the cloth. The weight of the gun presses into her thigh. No use for either here. No threat.
No one looks at her now. She looks at them instead.
Across from her sits a woman a few years younger, perhaps, dressed in a dark red coat with neat seams. Shoes are sensible. Hair is pinned at the nape of her neck. She holds a folded letter and reads it again and again, not moving her lips. Delicate makeup. Gloved hands. When she looks up, her eyes are steady, untroubled. This woman is going somewhere specific; this woman has a place to arrive.
She quietly imitates the way the womanâs legs are gracefully crossed at the ankles. There is a brief pull in her thigh, but she manages.
Beside her, an older woman knits. The yarn is a soft-looking purple. Fingers move without pause âpracticed, economical. It is hypnotic in its competence. The stockings are neat and modest. A small valise rests by low heels. When the train sways, the older woman sways with it, never losing a stitch.
She keeps her hands near her chest, positioning her fingers like the older woman does. She doesnât quite achieve the ease of those wrinkled hands.
Near the end of the bench, a mother sits with a child on her lap âawake now âwhispering instructions close to his ear. She can hear them. Donât touch. Sit still. Weâll be there soon. The child obeys. The motherâs voice is tired but firm. There is no doubt in it. The mother belongs to someone; someone belongs to her.
She imagines the weight of the child, the strain on her legs and back, and strokes the air. She pictures the breathing of a living thing, so close to her chest.
She measures herself against their coats, their shoes, the way they occupy space. They have purpose. She thinks of what she has: a body that requires planning and a dress that cannot pass unnoticed. The stolen contents of her pocket. She thinks of what she lacks: a trade, a letter, a suitcase, a destination.
No one asks her name. No one asks where sheâs going. She wouldnât have the answer to either question. But she could lie âno, invent.
She imagines staying here. Riding like this. Sitting among women who do not look back once theyâve chosen a seat. She imagines getting off alone, managing the steps, finding a room, finding work, any work. She imagines the arithmetic of it. How many days the quarters would last. How long before the gun becomes a necessity rather than precaution.
She thinks of standing up alone at the next stop. What being alone, with no one to wait for her, would mean.
There would be a new station platform. A new day. A new crowd to be lost in. She would navigate a new city, and eventually find her way in it. She would be careful as she walks the streets. She would carry her weight differently âshe knows this now âwhen sheâs on her own. She would observe strangers, learn their patterns. She would become one of them, another face among many.
Not one of them, no. She does not know if that is possible. It might be. She does not know.
There would be different rooms. Staircases to climb. Cold nights. Mornings with no witness. She canât know for sure if the isolation will be a release or a burden. After all, she has never been truly alone before.
She leans her head back briefly, closes her eyes, and listens to the layered sounds of the car: fabric shifting, breathing, the faint click of knitting needles, the rhythm beneath it all. The quiet holds. Not kind. Not peaceful. And yet not cruel.
It is possible.
Is this freedom?
She canât say for sure.
It will be a shock, she can be certain of that. Like breaking out of the conservatory âout into the world. Icy rain, watery mud. Dirt. Danger. Real.
She will survive the world. Even if she canât, she must. So she will.
But it is not just a question of survival.
And yet she is aware that this type of independence is based on a delicate balance. It requires clarity. It asks her to give answers âto present clean hands, manageable pain, a story that fits between stations. It asks her to be legible at a distance. To carry only what can be explained.
And that might simply not be who she is.
She opens her eyes. The young woman with the letter has folded it now, slipped it into her coat. The older womanâs knitting grows steadily, the shape of it already decided. The mother strokes the childâs hair, her fingers moving with slow certainty.
They know how to stay.
The leg brace tightens as the train sways. Her knee throbs, deeper now. The ache does not ask permission anymore.
She presses her palm against the brace, feeling the heat beneath the metal. For a moment she waits for the pain to settle.
She remembers the way he steadies her when it happens.
âLife can be so sweet...â she hums, barely moving her lips. âOn the sunny side of the street...â
She thinks of his familiar hands. Grounding her with their weight and warmth. Indicating how to breathe through a steady rhythm. Gently tracing patterns over the bare skin of her back. Veins, scars, broken knuckles, fingers stained a deep red.
Guilt. She saw it in his face, in his voice. Guilt does not change the truth.
What shape might that request have taken? Was it spoken to the doctors âor to someone else? Why did they agree âand what did they gain? She isnât sure she wants to know. She recalls the first moment she saw him when they brought her out of the white void. He reached for her, and smiled. Now she knows why.
She tightens her jaw. Was she ever truly free? Where did choice end, and where did bondage begin? He never mistreated her, never raised his voice. But she was still his âthe answer to his prayer. She still relied on him âmore than he could ever rely on her. At least, thatâs how it feels.
Why did he ask for this âfor her? What motivated him? She can speculate, as she thinks of herself in his position. His body, his history âtime, experience. A place like where she came from. Solitude. Silence. Silence is safe, he had said. There would have been doctors, more than the ones she had to face. No one to care for him. A true loneliness she is only now daring to taste.
She begins to understand the dependency. Not excuse âbut she can imagine a form of anguish, a sort of ache that might be born from a lack of hope. She can imagine herself suffering from that affliction for which she had been his cure. His.
So is he hers? After all, there must be a reason she has stayed with him for so long.
The answer comes easily. With him, nothing needs to be translated. Pain does not have to be minimized. Damage does not need to be justified. And she doesnât need to pretend.
If she stays, the bond will deepen. She will continue to be his. But the terms of that bond might be negotiated.
It is not safety, exactly. But it is alignment.
Her hand presses into the seat. She leans forward, gathering herself. The motion draws a glance or two. A woman shifts her feet again to make room. Someone politely murmurs excuse me.
She stands. The brace complains, louder this time. She waits it out, breath measured, then steps into the aisle. The weight in her pocket pulls, reminding her what she carries. What she would have to carry alone.
As she moves toward the door, she senses it ânot regret, not relief âbut a narrowing. A growing certainty. Possibility collapsing into choice.
The vestibule is cold. The noise is harsher here. The train stretches around her. She grips the railing, waits for the sway to pass âthen opens the door to the next car.
The sound rushes in: voices, movement, the less orderly rhythm of bodies packed together. Cigarette smoke swirls in the heavy air, illuminated by the morning light. A few eyes meet hers. They turn away.
She steps through. The door shuts behind her with a heavy sound.
He sees her âsits up. A flicker of hope... Yet for a moment he thinks she has returned only to end it properly.
Her brace creaks as she lowers herself in a small empty space, to sit in front of him. She stares at her hands for a moment. Slowly, she looks up at him.
Stay, he desperately tries to ask. Stay with me.Â
Her eyes are dark and hard. She came back. But there is no clear forgiveness. Instead, there is assessment. He recognizes it instantly.
He is a constant. He is predictable. He is a baseline. He is, somehow, despite everything, a form of comfort.
And he is her best bet at being understood.
He, her ground wire. She, his live current.
Her hand reaches out, tentatively. He almost shoots his hand out to hold hers âhe manages some restraint. He softens his fingers instead, palm facing up, in a request. She hesitates. She continues âslow, hesitant. He stays still. He feels the warmth before the skin. The tip of her scarred fingers almost feel like exoneration âbut not quite.
She holds his hand, and grips it tight. Tight enough to hurt. He returns it.
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1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.
She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
By the time they reach the station, the blood has already dried.
The monumental building spills light through the glass. It is still dark outside. Itâs a threshold hour. People leaving, arriving, or waiting all gather right outside the towering doors. Someone plays a slide guitar âa thin, metallic sound.
Her left knee has begun aching quietly, as if pain has finally been allowed to arrive. She adjusts her step without thinking, without stopping. He slows to match her.
She sees the busker has large scars on his face. Tired eyes, chapped lips, a slight quiver in the strained voice. Still, the busker doesnât look like him at all. The busker just looks like a soldier from the movie theater newsreel: plain, distant, even as they pass him by.
"In the pines, in the pines, Where the sun don't ever shine, I would shiver the whole night through..."
He drops two nickels into the tin cup. She hopes the busker spends them on a good movie.
"Her husband was a hard working man Just about a mile from here
Her head was found in a driving wheel, But her body never was found..."
The station opens its mouth. They step forward, and the crowd absorbs them at once.
Inside, the temperature shifts but doesnât fully comfort. The hall swallows sound, replacing the guitar's twang with a low roar of a thousand conversations and echoing footsteps. She pays attention to the low, constant hum of the building: distant boilers, vents breathing, a faint electrical buzz. Somewhere deeper in the station, thereâs the slow exhale of a steam locomotive âa hiss that rises and fades like breath.
And the station itself âthe boards clacking with departures, the smell of coal smoke and anxious bodies. Tall ceilings loom above, pale stone catching what little light there is. Dawn filters in through the high windows, blue-gray and thin. Electric lights still burn overhead, casting a warmer yellow glow that clashes softly with the morning haze. Shadows are long and sharp âcolumns slicing the space.
They walk warily, avoiding the coats and the eyes. The building hums on, unaware.
Blood had been dripping down his back, under the layers. Its initial warmth had given way to a quiet, sticky discomfort. Thereâs red coating his fingers, too. He doesnât mind. Someone else might.
They stop behind a pillar by the ticket windows. She finds the sign for the washrooms. A silent agreement passes between them. They must separate. They must clean the night off.
She leaves his side. He watches her, right until she disappears from his sight.
The door shuts behind him with a hollow sound.
Dirty, once-white tiles. Rows of porcelain sinks. The dull metal of worn brass. An echoing drip that seems to come from everywhere at once.
The light hurts. It flattens the room, erases depth. Everything is too even under it, too exposed âfar too close. His hands donât seem his. Colors look off.
He soaks his broken knuckles in ice-cold water. It barely stings. His fingers stretch and splay, wrist turning slowly. More scars surface âold, familiar. He watches them for longer than he needs to.
Only then does he notice the blood still spreading at his side. The shirt clings where itâs wet. The new wound. He presses a hand there âthe stab replies âbrief and strong, yet controlled. He exhales once.Â
He has never become fully accustomed to phantom sensations. By now, he thinks he never will. The unpredictable nature of his own skin is a sporadic reminder: this is not yours. It is bad enough in winter, when old scar tissue tends to announce itself. Now there is a new one for the collection.
He thinks of how her blistered fingers touched him. Sometimes it hurt âhe hid it well âhe liked it too much to complain.
But the ache in that moment, in front of the mirror, in the cold tiled room, is different. It runs deeper.
He might come out and find himself alone at their designated spot. She might have disappeared into the crowd. One thing is a threat âanother is the evidence.
The men in blue have seen them. The man with the knife is still alive. He thinks, I should have killed him, too.
And her expression when she saw it âthe body, the blood âit was one he would have never imagined. An understanding.
He can still hear the steady rhythm of her breathing. She didnât run. Her hand reached for him. She was there âshe stayed there.
The ache lingers.
And if she isnât there anymore...
He would look for her. Even if it was useless âthe crowd would swallow her instantly, the city is too big, he doesnât know yet how to navigate it. He would try. And once everything has been attempted...
He might retreat to the hills. Or be found and captured, during his search. Captured, again. Alone.
The dripping stops. The silence is worse.
The air smells of disinfectant, layered over something sweet. The lights buzz faintly. A stall door slams farther down.
She huffs and leans carefully. Her hands rest on the edge of the sink, before reaching down for the lower hem of her dress.
The blood has seeped into the silk, staining it for good. She wets the fabric and rubs it, but itâs no use. Pink water circles down the drain, thins, disappears.
She reaches for soap âthe smell makes her hesitate.
Something briefly surfaces. Foreign hands, running over her skin, pressing down. Cold water. A sharp breath.
She leaves the stain as is.
She groans quietly. Staying still for more than a few seconds is causing her leg to take in the exhaustion. Thereâs a heaviness on her shoulders, on her lower back. She presses a hand there, testing the tension. Her eyes close. She breathes in.
Gravity thickens. She notices, right then, how her body has been compensating. The brief rest in the L train hasnât fully allowed her to let up. The fatigue begins pooling at her hip âunder the leather harness âspreading at the knee, a dull ache. Her ankle pulls. Then her heel digs into her sole, balancing the warm throbbing on the end of her foot.
She shifts her weight. Her mind reaches for the train they will board âanother metal car, another bench, another hour of borrowed stillness. Her hand moves down the metal bars of the brace. Youâve done enough. She has learned how to walk for hours. Standing still, though âthat was harder.
The door swings open. Clicking heels. A woman hurries to stand next to her in front of the mirror. She blinks, slightly startled.
The woman gives her a once-over. For a moment she awaits some sort of comment, some criticism. The woman does not give her one. Instead, blue eyes fix back on the reflection, and makeup is reapplied. She continues staring at this woman âthe way she carries herself, the way her lips open gracefully, the way her hands pat her properly coiffed hair.
And then, something funny happens. Her body readjusts. Her spine stretches. Her jaw tightens, then relaxes. Her head turns slightly. She stands just like the woman does.
The woman stares back at her âlips twitching between an amused smile and an unnerved rictus. She is not mocking. She is not threatening. She is just observing.
The woman shoves her little tools inside her bag, and leaves quickly. The brace creaks as she settles back into herself. She is left alone in the washroom again.
The faucet is dripping. She turns it firmly, tensing her wrist, pushing until it gives no more.
She wonders if he is at the designated spot already.
The police might have caught him. He is not leaking blood anymore, she doesnât think so. But he still has a knife wound in his back.
What will she do, if heâs taken? She might wait for him, for as long as she can wait. Can she board the train without him? He has the money. He has the knowledge. She only has herself.
She sees the weight dragging down the pocket of her jacket. Feels it. Six brass circles. Infinite threats. An unreliable form of protection.
He is reliable. She can trust him, as far as she can trust anything at all.
A burst of anxiety âa quiet fear. Maybe separating for a moment was the wrong choice. Theyâre safer together. She knows this âbut never truly sat with the thought.
Somewhere in the station, a whistle shrieks.
They have to leave the city. Leave behind all the places that carried the echoes of the other her.
She smooths her skirt, checks the brace and wipes her fingers on the coarse wool of the jacket. The ache in her knee settles once more into something manageable.
The whistle echoes once more, farther away.
Outside the door, a train rumbles past. Time does not pause for him.
He adjusts his scarf, straightens the coat, and leaves.
The noise hits him like a wave as he pushes the door open. For a second, the crowd is a blur of coats and hats.
The designated spot is the pillar near the ticket windows, where they agreed to leave the otherâs side. He scans it. Empty.
He holds his breath. He just needs to wait. Patience is, he would assume, one of his few virtues.
Thenâ
He sees her first âa flash of orange under a stolen menâs jacket. His shoulders drop. She turns and sees him. Relief washes over.
She doesnât wait for him to reach her. She crosses the distance with that rhythmic, metallic clacking of her leg.Â
He grips her shoulders until his scarred knuckles turn white, steadying her, anchoring her to the floor. She pushes her forehead against his collar, her hands wrapped around his wrists, feeling his pulse. It is a tight embrace âthe survivors of an unstoppable disaster.
Thereâs still blood on the black leather. Thereâs still a faint smell of copper.
The embrace breaks by the jostle of a hurried passenger. A conductor's call echoes down the platform. A gate clangs open. The crowd begins to flow toward the platforms.
He quickly straightens the lapels of her jacket, making it neat again. She gives him a crooked smile, and adjusts the brim of his hat. He smiles back.
The departure board clacks again overhead.
They move towards a queue formed right outside a booth. People shift forward in small, impatient steps. The line moves quickly. Coats brush past one another. Someone coughs loudly. Someone argues behind her about change.
She steps forward when the man ahead of her clears the window. The clerk doesnât look up right away. A ledger is being squared, a rubber stamp set down with care.
âNext.â The voice is somewhat muted behind the glass.
She places the bills on the counter. Smooths them flat with the tip of her fingers.
âTwo tickets.â
The clerk finally looks up ânot at her face, not at the brace âbut at the money.
âDestination?â
Her voice is carefully even as she repeats a name picked at random.
âOne way or round trip?â
âOne way.â
The clerk reaches for a stack of thin cardboard rectangles. âWhen?â
âThe next train.â
The stamp comes down. Once. Twice. The sound is firm, practiced. Ink blooms and dries.
âCoach,â the clerk says, not asking.
âYes.â
The clerk looks up again. Her breath hitches for a second. Her cheeks stretch âbetween a smile and a rictus. The clerk looks down again.
The tickets slide across the counter. The clerk is already calling for the next person. She gathers the slips of cardboard, folding them carefully, then tucks them into the inner pocket of the stolen jacket.
She steps aside. The line closes behind her at once. She does not look back.
He has stayed where they agreed âhalf shadows by the pillar, watching the crowd. She reaches him, the tickets already warm in her hand.
âNext departure?â he asks quietly.
She glances towards the board. âFour minutes.â
He nods.
Around them, the station keeps moving. Another train exhales steam somewhere beyond the walls.
The platforms are colder. Steam hangs in the air, rolling around iron beams. The train breathes âhissing, settling, preparing. The smell is stronger here: oil, smoke, hot metal fighting winter air.
The light has shifted again. Morning is closer, though not there yet. The sky is undecided.
Porters call out destinations. A door slams. A conductorâs voice cuts through the noise. The platform shifts as passengers begin to move toward the waiting cars.
She remembers the great iron beast that rushed past them outside the city. Inevitable, unassailable. Here, at rest, it is not as imposing. Here, it appears domesticated.
It exhales constantly. Steam swirls from beneath the cars, drifting low, then lifting, then dissolving. Metal ticks softly as it adjusts to temperature âsmall, nervous sounds. The cars are dark, windows reflecting platform lights more than revealing interiors.
He helps her climb up and board the train, holding her hand as she pulls her leg behind her. The metal step is slick with frost. Someone warns another to watch their footing. A porter lifts luggage without ceremony. No one thanks him. A few coins are exchanged, at most.
The moment they step inside, the world narrows. The door closes with a heavy, final sound.
Outside noise dulls immediately, replaced by a contained, interior hush. Warmth exists, but itâs stale warmth, carried over from previous bodies, coats, nights.
The aisle is tight. Coats brush coats. Shoes bump into calves. Someone mutters an apology without looking up. He is careful where he steps.
Seats are upholstered, worn thin in places. The windows are cold to the touch, faintly fogged near the edges. Overhead racks hold battered suitcases, tied bundles, paper-wrapped parcels. Nothing is truly stable.
A jolt. The train gathers itself.
The windows fog unevenly as bodies warm the air. Outside, the platform slides away in fragments âstone, iron, steam âuntil there is only movement and pale light.
She glances at it. The sight has lost its novelty.
A conductor passes. Tickets are checked, punched, returned. She stretches a hand before his face. He draws his head down between his shoulders âscarf covering him, hat tilted down. The tickets are accepted. The exchange with the conductor is brief, ordinary. She notes it.
He lowers his scarf an inch when the conductor moves on.
The train gathers speed. The rhythm deepens, more confident now. With each mile away from the station, the city loosens its hold. The last few days settle in her mind. More solid than the memories âalready deepened with the weight of past experience.
Dawn finally enters the car. Pale light stretches across the aisle. Faces look different now. Shadows soften. Frosted fields, industrial edges, smokestacks slide past in fragments. She has already seen them before.
The train is steady, much more than its younger brother inside the city. By the time full morning arrives, they will already be elsewhere.
The coach car slowly fills with sound: the low creak of wood and metal, the steady churn beneath their feet, the hiss of steam slipping through unseen seams. Seats are taken quickly. Knees knock. Coats overlap. Someone clears their throat. Another coughs, deep and wet.
They sit side by side, close enough that their arms press together when the train sways. She considers leaning her head against his shoulder. He considers wrapping his arm around her. They remain still.
Across the aisle, a woman whispers to a man. Their eyes flick toward her, then quickly look away. Somewhere behind them, an older man chuckles. Paper rustles. A thermos cap twists open. The smell of coffee drifts through the car, thin and bitter.
No one speaks to them. A few glance at them âno more.
She exhales slowly, counting the beats of the wheels. One. Two. Three.
A question presses at her throat. She canât imagine a reliable answer âthat is the only true reason why she must ask it. She suspects he might not know either.
She turns her head just enough to see him in profile. His eyes are lowered, forward, fixed on nothing. She wonders if he is in pain.
The train keeps moving. She leans to him âand whispers.
âWhy were we made?â
He looks up. Turns to see her. She is staring at him, with soft eyes.
The question hangs between them.
He can lie. He can say he does not know. He can tell a half-truth. Silence is an option.
But she deserves an answer.
He doesnât want to lie to her. He doesnât want to lose her, either.
But that is a risk he knows he needs to take.
He leans just an inch closer. She stays still. His eyes wander over her face. Her eyes remain on his.
He breathes in.
âThey did not create you... Just for science,â he says, his voice almost a sigh. âI begged for you.â
She understands the words. The order is whatâs confusing. She repeats them silently. Meaning slowly clicks into place.
âYou are the answer to a selfish prayer.â
She blinks. It hurts to look at her âbut he must.
She turns towards the window. Her reflection is a ghost over his haunted face.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
They are down on the street, in the gold and the grime. Her head tilts back. There is a black ribbon, in between towering buildings leaning into the center of the street. The last glimpse of nature. Everything else is overpowering and in motion.
She is entranced.
Streets feel narrower. Light feels harsher. The scale is almost humbling. The roar of the city borders on overwhelming âand then stays right behind the line. Streetcars clang and chime. The elevated train rumbles as it passes by. Car horns blare. Newsboys shout final editions. A whistle cuts clean through the air. It doesnât take long before the wall of sound becomes homogenous, dense and uniform âa steady symphony.
And the crowd âvaried, strange, fascinating. Well-dressed women in furs pour out of doors, laughing brightly. Men in hats and overcoats stride with the confidence of purpose. In between them âpencil salesmen, shoeshine boys, beggars huddled in doorways, breath visible in the electric light.
They walk side by side, dodging the black slush, moving through clouds of billowing steam. The crowd parts when they pass ânot so much out of dread as pragmatism ânobody wants to bump into the figure shrouded in black leather. And yet nobody stops to stare. Stopping is prohibited.
Their bodies, everyoneâs bodies, are reflected in shop windows, polished granite, wet pavement. The world is duplicated, distorted. The shard in her pocket feels redundant among all those echoes.
She exhales in something like laughter. When she breathes in âfreezing wind slips into her throat and lungs âbitter car exhaust fumes âdamp garbage âperfume and pomade. She has the city inside her.
His eyes donât watch the same things. He keeps his sight at street-level, away from the hundred squares on the walls closing in on them.
He has known cities âgaslight and stone, markets and bells, streets that slept at night. He has known crowds, too âgathered for sermons, for executions, for war. But this is something else. This does not gather âit surges.
The light is wrong âtoo constant, too bright âunearned. It erases shadow instead of casting it. The noise does not rise and fall; it presses, uniform and relentless, a force without breath. There is no pause built into it.
He realizes, with a faint unease, that this city does not notice him. It would grind on whether he stood still or vanished entirely. His presence is unremarkable. It is a sort of shelter âjust not one he recognizes.
Beside him, she is alight with it âalready moving to its rhythm.
Her leg brace does attract a few stares âthe creak, the restraint of it. Nobody stops âthey slow down at most, barely linger, then resume their pace. She doesnât mind now âtoo busy staring back. Faces blur, come into focus and then blur again. Thick mustaches âdark lips âlight eyes âthin brows. Gritted teeth. Sly smiles. A face turns âthen disappears. Rustle of clothes, shiny buttons, clicking of heels, gentle glow of hair. She pictures herself like them: a series of fragments âa set of black eyes, a flash of orange, a messy curl, a rusty iron bar, a muscle tugging at her cheek.
He remains a sizable shadow. The brim of his hat and the hem of the scarf narrow his view. He searches for edges âany sharpening of intent. There is a new threat here âthere is always some threat âbut it is concealed. He is lost. Not scared, but unsettled âdisplaced. The anonymity of the city doesnât feel fully safe.
He expects the known signs: a loud realization, immediate pursuit, some sort of pressure or action. A commotion, breaking through the noise.
What he does not expect is silent fixation. Now, suddenly, they are seen.
The crowd had stood in between their line of sight and the men in badges and blue uniforms. They smoke, talk, unaware. He slows down. His shoulders tense. They are too close. They should run. They should hide.
One of the men looks up. Eyes meet. The man furrows his brow. A hand reaches for the cigarette hanging from a stiff mouth. The stare holds for perhaps one full second âbut it is enough.
She grips his arm tight. Not a flinch âa command. Her hand pulls him forward.
The three men stare. Smoke blooms out of lips and nostrils. A whisper passes through.
They continue walking, imitating their previous pace. She forces the brace into a hard rhythm that absorbs the scrape and bites into the flesh of her thigh. They move past. Every step becomes a swallowed sound. They feel the menâs eyes on their backs. She thinks of white and green walls. Her hand feels around inside her pocket.
He finds a narrow seam between two buildings. The only offer the street would make. A way out. Reliable shadows, away from the exposure of light. He gently steers her towards the gap in between the walls. His hand on her back is no longer a guide but a request. They pivot as one body. Her eyes catch a final golden smear from the street âand then she is in the dark with him.
The alley is colder, damper. Snow and ice havenât yet been worn down by hundreds of steps. The silence is slightly startling. Noise fades with each stride. Soon the wide busy street behind them is just a drone, ringing in their ears.
This new delicate sound has a different texture. Dripping water. Exhausted buzzing. Scuttle of something in the trash. In the stillness, every small movement becomes as loud as a scream.
They keep moving. They listen carefully. The only true constant is their own steps on the pavement. They are alone.
But not for long.
Thereâs a quiet rustling of fabric, just a few feet ahead. An old woman, wrapped in a ratty coat and a dirty blanket, stumbles out of the shadows, with the unsteady gait of a professional drunkard. The woman looks sick, and mutters what sounds like doubtful prayers. She can catch a few rambling words as they come closer:
âPast the square... Past the bridge, past the mills âand the stacksââ
The woman looks up and stares at them. The corners of her mouth are pulled, exposing a mouth of jagged teeth. The woman laughs âa wet, hacking, whooping cackle âas her voice echoes in the alley.
âThrough the ghettos âthrough the barrios âthrough the bowery âand the slum...!â
A string of words hangs from his memory âthe remembrance of that primal language, the first he has learned to speak: should intermitted vengeance arm again... His red right hand to plague us?
She glances at him. His scarf has slipped, resting on his collar. His eyes are empty. The same as back at the conservatory âabsent, impenetrable. She looks away, ahead.
The womanâs voice fades and becomes smaller in the distance. There is still a remainder of the low mumble, trapped in the coarse surface of the brick walls.
She canât quite see the end of that alley. Hard, isolated lights and exposed wires cling to their right in intervals, displaying layers of ripped advertisements. Scraps display dim, washed-out colors, hands, eyes, mouths, lines, letters, half-legible words. She reaches out. Her fingers graze the thin damp paper of a peeling edge. Ink bleeds down.
They go through another patch of darkness.Â
The alley doesnât seem to end. The space repeats itself. The sounds become monotonous.
Then faintly, almost gently, a new sound emerges.
Soft footsteps behind them. No humming ânot the old woman. Quiet, but they mark a steady pace.
The footsteps turn heavier, louder. He places his hand on her waist, pulls her closer. She clenches her jaw. Her hand slips into her jacketâs pocket, seeks the shape and weight of her confidence.
âEvening.â
A shape detaches itself from the shadows ahead.
She sees movement, and looks down. A dark, silent silhouette is drawn over the pavement. Its source fixed behind them, it stretches ahead, walking as they do.
âYou look like you took a wrong turn.â
Even from a distance, he can see it. The man's eyes are dilated, almost black.
She notices the stance. Assured, tense. Weight shifting on scuffed shoes. The man has something in his pocket; the light displays its shadow under the outline of the worn fabric.
They keep walking. The man intends to block their path. They donât stop.
The man does not step aside âseems not to care âinstead notices the leather coat, the silk skirt, the leg brace, the scars. An assessment of value and vulnerability.
She reaches down âhe steps forwardâ
The silent man behind them sees her hand moving out of her pocket. A shove âshe drops âthe gun slips âit trips and clatters and ends up bumping against the wall. Silent, just another piece of debris. Her knees hit the pavement âher brace cries out, metal hitting the bone âa blunt, immediate pain, followed by a grunt. A sting of dread, like sour bile bubbling up her throat.
He turns around before the man can manage to lay a hand on him.
His fist lands dead centre in the manâs chest. The man stumbles back âcoughing âand collapses.
A sudden, small explosion under the skin of his back âa burning he knows well âa sharp breath. Pulse loudens. Dark blood spreads: wet heat. Clumsy footsteps move away from him. He stays upright. The man behind him has pulled the blade out.
The man lunges forward for another stab.
This threat has a face. A tool. It can be stopped âit can be ended.
He knows this. He can read this. He knows where to lay his weight. It borders on relief.
He grabs the manâs hand âthe knife is dropped. He grips the shoulder âpushes down with a slight increase in strength âthe manâs face lands on the curb. He raises a knee. Boot stomps down âthe crunch of a bone âa shrill, cut-off scream.
The body yields. The threat recedes.
The alley goes quiet in a way that feels deliberate.
One man on the ground is no longer struggling. The other stays down, reaching for air. An attempt to escape. A shallow, barely successful gasp.
This is enough. He could step away.
He doesnât.
His hands remember before he does. It is still this easy. He adjusts once, feeling for the place where resistance gives way. He can sense the tension of the windpipe under his palm.
Muscles tense. The man is pulled to his limp feet. The body swings âhead tilts to the side âto then be bashed against the brick wall. Once âtwice âthree times. A dull noise echoes through the alley. A quick red splatter reaches the hem of her dress.
He releases. The body slumps, striking the pavement with a sound too solid to mistake. Blood spreads slowly beneath its cracked head, dark against the wet stone.
Behind him, she makes a small sound. Not a word, not a whimper. Something like a sigh.
He turns to her. He is already bracing for it âthe fear, the recoil, the moment where she sees him clearly and steps back.
She doesnât.
She looks at the man on the ground. There is no horror in her face. Only attention. As if she has learned something useful.
He feels it then. Not shame, not regret âbut the ache of having been seen.
And when she reaches for him instead, steady and unafraid, the relief is sharp enough to hurt.
1930s Chicago. A scarred, ancient creature has endured decades of chains and silence in a secret lab. Then they resurrect her âcurious, fearless, fully alive.She leads with instinct and desire; he follows, a century of restraint finally breaking. Two monsters learning to be lovers âand refusing to go back.
Her hand runs over the rivets of the steel girders. The heels of her boots hit the dark, worn floors of the platform. He follows behind her, leather creaking quietly.
They stop where the crowd thins, near a pillar plastered with faded ads. The platform rattles beneath their feet. Wind tunnels through the station, tugging at loose paper and the lightly frayed hem of her silk dress. Somewhere down the line, a train screams âa warning roar.
She watches the crowd instead of the tracks. People hurry past with their collars up, their bodies turned inward, their lives tucked close to the chest. Exhaustion and anxiety weather their faces just as much as the winterâs cold wind.
âBefore I reached into your pocket, it felt like nothing. Noise. Sweat. Laughing...â She grits her teeth. â... And then it felt like a switch.â
He tilts his head. âA switch?â His voice is muffled under his scarf.
âA thing that could tip the room,â she says. âJust by pulling.â
The train approaches, its lights shuddering through the dark. The rails begin to sing âa rising, electric hum.
âMost people donât realize how thin it is,â he says. âThe line between ordinary and⌠Something else.â
She considers this. âDo you?â
âYes.â
âDoes it frighten you?â
He hesitates, only slightly. âNo.â
She turns back to the platform edge. A man drops a newspaper page; another steps over it without noticing. Someone yawns. Someone coughs. The world continues, oblivious.
The arrival is marked by a storm of sound. Doors rattle open. The humble crowd compresses, then spills inside.
As they step aboard, her elbow brushes his sleeve. His arm moves an inch âto lightly lean closer. She thinks of the warm pressure of his hand gripping hers.
Doors close. The train carries them through the night.
They stay near the exits. The air smells of damp wool, oil, and yesterdayâs smoke. He briefly wonders if she might need to sit down. All that dancing must have tired her.
The car sways as the train lurches forward. Light flickers across their faces in rhythmic streaks âwindow, pole, window, pole. It is like a pulse.
Across from them, a man sleeps with his hat tipped over his eyes. A woman cradles a paper bag as if it contains something fragile, or alive, or both. She watches them all with careful interest.
âDo you think the city forgives things,â she asks softly, almost idly, âIf theyâre useful?â
He considers the question longer than he needs to.
âIt forgets,â he says, matching her tone. âThat can feel like forgiveness.â
She nods and hums. âThe doctors never worried about being forgiven.â
âThey never had to,â he replies. âThey had titles. Locks. White rooms.â
âNo one stopped the doctors.â
No one, until they did. Until the need became stronger than the fear.
He shifts his weight as the train rounds a curve. The car groans, an old and tired sound.
âPower,â he says, âis often mistaken for permission.â
She feels the weight of his words. Whose permission do we need? Who has power over us?
She watches a pair of young men laughing loudly near the far door. One of them shoves the other, playfully. The shove is returned âa small, careless act that carries the faintest hint of escalation.
A woman in a grey coat and unbuckled shoes leaves her seat. He gestures to her. They hurry toward the bench at the far end of the car. Huddling against each other, foreheads almost touching âfor secrecy and stability.
More passengers rush in. One man, struggling under the weight of his exhaustion, sits by his side. She breathes softly. Her hair presses against his temple.
âBeing in danger changes what is allowed.â she murmurs. She thinks of the crack of the orderlyâs wrist when he twisted it.
He looks into her shadowed eyes. He has no way of knowing âbut he suspects whatâs on her mind.
âIt changes what feels necessary,â he says. âPeople tell themselves many stories about necessity.â
âDo you believe them?â
He thinks about punishment. His fingers stroke a scar on his wrist.
â... No.â
The train rattles over a junction. The lights flicker again, briefly dimmer.
She lowers her voice even more. âIf something is possible,â she says, âdoes that make it inevitable?â
âNo,â he answers. âBut knowing you can do a thing⌠It alters you.â
âI donât feel guilty.â
He does not look away. âYou are not required to.â Guilt. The heaviest word he knows.
âI feel⌠Aware,â she continues, with a small exhalation. âLike Iâve discovered a door I didnât know existed.â
The train slows for the next station. A hiss and sputter of air brakes. Doors open with a clatter-bang. A gust of cold air sweeps through the car, carrying street noise âhorns, footsteps, a shouted argument. They watch out for any suspicious stares. One woman glances at the color of her skirt, then quickly looks away. For the time being, they can allow themselves something similar to peace.
As the doors close, the world outside recedes again.
She sighs. âSurvival excuses things.â
âSurvival explains them,â he tries to correct. Then he realizes how his words resemble the doctorsâ vocabulary. â... Excusing is something they do afterward.â
Her hand rests briefly by her jacket pocket, then falls away.
The train surges forward. Noise and motion. They stay silent.
The window displays a grimy square of the city. Images blur past the frame âlit windows, dark buildings, the smear of a neon sign. The thought of the movie theater âthe large, bright, glowing face of the leading lady âblinks into her mind. The city looked so different there. Clean, innocent âlike the idea of a city, more than the real thing.
A sharp jerk âher body slides on the bench âhe reaches and grabs her arm to steady her. Lights sway violently to the turn at the corner, and the shadows dance as the whole car shudders. It is not the inevitability of the iron beast they encountered outside the city. There are designated stops âtangled wires âhuman voices, garbled like static through a radio signal. It is smaller âfragile âcrowded with brittle lives. A system inside a larger system, a part of something denser, more complex. There are so many rules. To whom do they benefit?
The city is the machine, she realizes, and they are loose parts inside of it. Untethered.
Louder voices make their way through the groans and shrieks of the brakes on the rails. Quiet comments and small human sounds are cut short. The two voices draw attention to themselves.
His eyes focus on the other end of the car. A man is yelling at another one, hands shivering in tight fists. The other bodies that crowd the seats keep still, silent. Her eyes open wide. A fight is begging to begin. The two men are teetering on the edge of it, in a small dance of moving forward, moving back. They exchange cruel, meaningless words, raise their voices, not yet full threats. A woman takes two steps back.
One of the yelling men closes his mouth, then breathes in. She does the same. Her fingers close around the wool of her oversized jacket.
A new stop. Another man, wearing a cap and a uniform, intervenes. Some kind of authority, she assumes. The other two men listen to him. The near-fight fizzles. He believes there is a small, collective sigh of relief, but he canât be entirely sure. A part of her is curious to know what would have happened if the conflict hadnât been repressed.
The train moves again. Conversation returns, fragmented, cautious at first, then unremarkable. The car settles back into its rhythm, the earlier tension folded away as if it had never existed.
Outside the window, the dark begins to break apart. The city grows brighter âlouder âcloser. The streets draw closer together, dense with movement and promise. Windows multiply. New glowing signs âlarger, brighter, in blazing colors âred, orange, yellow. Scattered letters rush past. Steam columns rise through the frozen air, like smoke from a fire. The city is engulfed in electric flames.
It is offered âit pulls âit craves.
She leans closer to the glass, pressing her forehead against her reflection. Denser, noisier crowds of dark figures âhats and shoulders glowing gently to the lights of signs and streetlamps. All is covered in gold. Buildings crowd nearer to the tracks. Slick cars slide over asphalt covered in slush dirty with soot. Glimmering metal âmore light, more.
When the train slows, she is already watching for the doors.
Her head swivels to face him. He notices. Her eyes glow.
Charles yawned, though he still felt wide awake. He was still excited, dizzy and euphoric on the remainder of his sugar rush. After changing into his pajamas and brushing his teeth, and kissing his mother and father goodnight, he had gotten all nice and cozy in between his sheets. He considered reading âRabbit, Runâ, a longer book he had taken from his fatherâs bookshelf and hidden under his pillow, and that sounded like something he would like. But he wasnât really in the mood for reading. So he turned off his light, and turned around in his bed, with his eyes still open. His mind fluttered from one thought to the next, going over everything that had happened during his birthday party, as if trying to sear it into his memory.
It had gone better than he expected. Everyone, not only him, had the time of their lives. His parents had put a couple of tables out in the garden, and crowded them with dishes and bowls of cookies, popcorn, gummy bears and other candies and snacks for the children to feast on. They had set out a game of cricket for the kids to play, too, even though most just played tag, and tripped on the grass, and got up and started running again. Everyone seemed to be having fun. Most importantly, Charles, the birthday boy, had his fun. Birthdays were usually a bit of a chore, but this time it hadnât been half bad. A couple of his classmates had been annoying, but he just did what he often did: just fantasized about slapping them or punching them or shutting them up with a threat or two, and he would feel better. That was one of the few things that he felt he shouldnât have shared with Danny. Those fantasies were apparently not common nor appropriate for a boy his age, he had to guess from his uneasy reaction. He wondered when, if at all, they would be appropriate. Thankfully Danny had promised to never tell anyone about it, and so far he had kept his word: if he hadnât, Charles could expect that he would have ended up being a little more suspicious after the death of that guinea pig.
His mind went back to the party. He had gotten so many presents from his parents, of course, and from the classmates he didnât expect would even pretend to like him at all. He had been given a View-Master, his new favorite toy, with some reels from the Batman TV show; a tin rocket which he could pop open and use to store little green men and astronauts with rayguns; and another toy truck, even though he didnât care much about toy trucks at all. There had been other gifts, of course. Clothes and books, mostly, but he didnât really like them. All the books were for younger kids (he would scream if he got another unbearably whimsical Dr Seuss book), and the clothes were too bright and colorful for his tastes. He had thanked everyone, though, as he knew he should. Heâd find a way to accidentally rip the knees of those ugly corduroys, or to permanently stain those loudly-patterned shirts.
And his father had congratulated him with a pat to the back, and called him his âlittle manâ (Charles had hated it, but had smiled nonetheless, for his sake), and taken just about a hundred photos of him while his mother straightened his jacket and adjusted his shirt collar. Charles had kept smiling, both because he wanted to keep these photos of him looking happy and because he did feel truly, really happy. Then his father had taken more photos of his son standing along with his wife, and with Danny, and with a few other classmates, probably to make himself believe he had more friends than he really had. But they had all smiled for the white flash, they had all seemed happy to be there. Happy faces all around.
Charles had blown those seven little candles before the wax started drooping on the white frosting, and hurried to make the wish he already had memorized. He had asked to cut the cake himself âhe said it was to make sure that he cut it in the same sized portions for everyone. His mother had smiled, knowing he would save the biggest slice for himself. And, when she said no, he had frowned and pouted and glared at her in the way he knew he could do to get whatever he wanted from her. Obviously, she had acquiesced in the end. Holding the big knife in his hand, he had wondered if it was anything like what the mass murderer on the radio had used to kill his victims.
And later, when the sun began to go down over the treetops of the Hackensack suburb, welcoming the evening, the children said their goodbyes, and climbed into their parentsâ cars, tired from all that running and squealing, drowsy and heavy with candy and cake. Charles had taken his gifts inside the house while his parents picked everything up. Then his mother got started with the dinner, and his father went back to listen to his music in the living room, while Charles played alongside him on the carpet with his new tin rocket. And then they had dinner, and they had wished him a happy birthday once more, and then they tucked him into bed. And now Charles was turning between his sheets, sighing and smiling to himself.
He wished every day could be like that.
So he closed his eyes and went to sleep, happy and content.
âTomorrow, after school,â Charles said. âYouâre coming, right?â
Danny Hyde scoffed. âOf course Iâm coming. Thereâs gonna be cake!â
Charles laughed. Danny was his best âand, arguably, his only âfriend, but he was also a bit dumb. He didnât get the best grades, often got lost during class, and sometimes he could almost swear he barely knew how to read. He didnât care. Charles wasnât very good at making friends âeveryone else just seemed stupid to him âbut Danny at least was kind enough to stick by his side regardless of how many times Charles laughed at his ignorance. The fact that the other teachers encouraged the friendship, hopeful that Charlesâ smarts would eventually rub on Danny, definitely didnât hurt.
And besides, his mother was always talking about how important it was for him to make friends. He didnât want to spend all his time alone, after all, did he? Charles wasnât sure he minded it. But he had to agree that, sometimes, he thought about things that he knew his mother wouldnât understand, or that would make his father nervous, and Danny was the next best person to share his ideas with. Not that he understood much, of course. It was still better than nothing.
âThe partyâs at my house tomorrow, after school,â Charles said as he handed an invitation to a pigtailed girl whose name he didnât remember. âBe there or be square.â
He knew these other kids wouldnât come unless there was candy and games. They really didnât care much about Charles, just as he didnât care much about them. His mother would be sad if he spent his birthday without any guests, though. A party needed guests, right? So he made the effort to deliver the invitations she had so lovingly written and decorated herself to his classmates, to appease her.
He sighed, and handed a couple more. Danny chewed noisily on his bubblegum while standing beside him on the hallway, glancing around, probably thinking about that dull fishing trip he was going to have with his father over the weekend. So many things they did seemed to be just for their parentsâ sake. If Charles could have his way, he would stay up late watching cartoons on TV, and ride his bike around the neighborhood after it got dark, and eat candy and cookies and fries and steak whenever he wanted and never be told again to eat his greens, and read whatever he wanted without anyone to tell him it was only for grownups, even if he didnât understand everything. He would understand everything, when he grew up. Those were just a few reasons why he wanted to grow up already, and be a grown man like his father, so he could be properly free, and do whatever he wanted to do.
âWhat would you do if you were a grownup?â he asked Danny.
Danny shrugged. âI dunno. Iâd be a firefighter, I guess.â
âWhat for?â Charles laughed. âJust to get burned alive?â
âFirefighters donât get burned, they save people from getting burned.â
âFirefighters arenât fireproof,â Charles said in a condescending tone. âTheyâre just like everyone else.â
âWell, theyâre smart enough not to get burnt,â Danny argued.
âThen you canât be a firefighter. I donât think youâre smart enough.â
Danny chuckled and elbowed his friend. Charles gave him a friendly shove.Â
âI wonât be a grownup for a while, anyways,â Danny said, and blew his bubblegum to make a big bubble. Charles popped it with his finger, and Danny turned his tongue and pulled the gloopy pink matter back into his mouth. âSo I donât really care.â
âItâll happen someday.â
âYeah, but dad says I should be happy Iâm still a kid. I guess heâs right,â Danny shrugged again. âIf I were a grownup then I couldnât live with mom and dad. I would have to live on my own, and find a job, and all that stuff grownups need to do.â
Charles frowned. He hadnât thought about that. Did he have to move out? Couldnât he stay at home with his mother, even if he was a grownup? He hadnât seen anyone do it, not in his books, nor on TV, nor in real life, so maybe it was simply impossible. But would his mother really kick him out, once he got old enough? Would she be so heartless to do such a thing? He didnât think so, but if everyone else said she should, then maybe she just might.
But who would feed him, if his mother wasnât there? Who would wash his clothes, and keep everything neat and clean? Who would care for him, and do everything a mother had to do?
Who would love him unconditionally, like she did?
Charles didnât like that. Not only did he not like thinking about what he would do without his mother, he didnât like realizing how much he depended on her. He had never stopped to think about everything she did for him, and how lost he would be without her. That wasnât fair. He should be able to do things by himself! He had to learn. His mother wouldnât live forever, after all. Her father had died before her, so it stood to reason that Charlesâ mother would die before him. And then what? He couldnât go on living like a baby, coddled and protected like he was some fragile little trinket. Not if he wanted to be a man someday.
Maybe that could be his birthday wish. To become a man, perfectly independent, and never have to depend on anyone ever again.
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There was barely a sound in the house apart from the rain pitter-pattering against the windows. The mother was quietly fixing lunch in the kitchen, and the father was sitting on his favorite chair and listening to his music in the living room. Bored out of his mind, Charles went down the stairs and approached him quietly, not so much as to bother him as to find out what he was listening to now, buzzing through his headphones. He huffed when he recognized the melody. All he listened to was boring old peopleâs music, Beethoven and Purcell. At least Charlesâ mother liked what played on the radio, actual good music, the type that made one want to dance and have fun. But he still picked up one of the record sleeves and examined it, pretending he cared about what it said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father noticing him, smiling in pride at seeing his boy show an interest in classical music.
Charles put the record down, sat on the floor, and had a look around him. There were his motherâs paintings on the wall, abstract shapes of color and movement. Blue, silver, gray, black, white. He liked them, even if he didnât understand what they meant. And there were also the tall modern lamps, with which he liked to pretend to create lightning strikes, turning them off and on, even if his mother protested. And, set against the wall and next to his fatherâs chair, the state-of-the-art hi-fi stereo console, one of his fatherâs most prized possessions. More than once Charles had fantasized about smashing it with his baseball bat, see what was inside, see what would happen. He wondered if his father would cry. There was a chance he got angry, but he had never seen his father angry. He would probably just say he was disappointed in him, like he always said when Charles misbehaved, and then he would buy a new one, and that would be the end of that.
There was also his motherâs small portable radio, which she listened to when she was cooking or painting, forgotten on top of the little table beside the sofa. Charles crawled on the carpet, reached the radio, and turned it on. Pop music blared out of the plastic speakers, and cut through the silence.
âCharles... Iâm listening to my music here,â Peter said with a sigh. âCanât you see?â
âI want to listen to music too,â Charles complained, frowning, staring at his father. He wasnât a particularly strong-willed man, but unfortunately the boyâs glares rarely, if ever, worked on him. âI want to choose.â
âOnce Iâm done, you can choose. Alright?â
Charles just grumbled, but didnât turn the radio off just yet. He lowered the volume and changed stations, turning the little dial, listening carefully and stopping only once he heard a familiar set of words.
âA mass murderer continued his reign of terror today, leaving two more dead in his wake,â a voice reported. âAs violent crimes continue to rise, we urge all citizens of Hackensack not to go alone at nightââ
âTwo more, that makes thirteen,â Charles realized out loud. âCounting the last three from the mall... I wonder what he killed them with.â
He turned around to face his father, who had now taken one of the headphones off, and was staring at his son with a dismayed look on his face. Charles often asked uncomfortable questions âPeter had to assume that was understandable, at his age âbut this was something else entirely. Why did his curiosity lead him to such dark places?
âWill the police kill him, when they find him?â Charles asked his father.
Peter grit his teeth. âIf he resists arrest, then he... If he doesnât stop and the police catch him, then maybe they will shoot him, yes. Like the cowboys and Indians on TV.â
âThey would kill him so as to make him stop killing,â Charles repeated, just to make sure he understood correctly. It did make some twisted sort of sense. âWhy donât they just put him in jail instead?â
âThey can try, but sometimes, policemen just canât catch them without getting very hurt,â Peter explained as patiently as he could. âSo they shoot him, hopefully somewhere where it doesnât kill him, to stop him. Thatâs the most important thing to them,â he told his son, in his best comforting tone. âTo stop him, so people are safe.â
âHave you ever killed someone?â
Peter Ray looked at his son as if he had just slapped him.
Charles just shrugged. âMr Briggs next door says you save lives. Do doctors only save them, or do they take them, like the police?â
âI... Charles, thatâs not the sort of question you should ask.â
âWhy not?â
âWell, itâs... Itâs rude .â
Charles frowned. âI didnât mean to offend you, and I didnât insult you. How is that rude?â
âYou canât just ask people if theyâve ever killed someoneââ
âWell, have you?â
Peter stretched his shoulders, shifting awkwardly in his chair. âI didnât kill anyone, strictly speaking... But there have been complications with one particular surgery, some time ago, and... We all knew the risk, certainly, and the patient knew the risk. Still, we... We couldnât save him.â
Charles opened his eyes wide. âWhat did that feel like?â
His father sighed. âIt... Itâs devastating. Itâs confusing, and paralyzing, and terrifying... Knowing you might have been able to do something else, done better... We did the best we could. I know that. But it still feels like I carry that guilt, sometimes,â It probably wasnât a good idea to discuss such matters with his six-year-old son. Now that he had started, though, Peter thought he might as well finish explaining himself. âI suppose itâs just not something you can really ever forget, your first death.â
His father didnât cry, of course, but he seemed just about to. Charles winced. It seemed silly to him to worry so much about it. If he did the best he could, then what did it matter? People died every day. That same day, two other people had been killed. There wasnât anything they could do about it, so what was the point of worrying?
âYour first ?â
âYou donât have to be scared about that killer,â his father said, quickly changing the subject. âThereâs policemen patrolling this neighborhood every night. He wouldnât dare come close.â
âIâm not scared,â Charles said.
That was only half true. He knew that the police were looking for the man, and he trusted he would eventually get caught. But he would be lying if he said that he wasnât at least a little bit nervous about the possibility of him showing up around. Would he kill a child? Well, there wasnât much of a difference, was there? Would the death be painful and drawn out, or easy and quick? Charles grimaced. He didnât like to think about it, but now that he had begun, he couldnât stop. He didnât want to think about the chances of him getting killed. There was so much he still wanted to do. It was embarrassing, but if he came face to face with the killer, he had to admit he would do just about anything to avoid being killed.
His father smiled, and sighed, and reached for his sonâs head to stroke his hair reassuringly.
Charlesâ sneakers tapped on the floor as he jumped up and down. He grinned and leaned forward, spreading his fingers on the kitchen counter, while his mother made the shopping list of things to buy for his birthday party. It was coming real soon ânext Tuesday. He would turn seven, which sounded like a lot to his mother, who still remembered struggling to change his diapers at the crack of dawn as clearly as if it had been yesterday. She couldnât think about that for too long, because if she did, she would only get herself teary eyed. Her little boy was growing up so fast. But that was a cause for celebration. She knew he couldnât wait to be old enough to... To do whatever he wanted, she had to guess.
âStreamers, balloons, party hats...â
Charles leaned his head on his arms, resting them on the cool countertop, and gazed up at his mother. She was very, very pretty, prettier than all the other mothers at school and around the neighborhood. She had a soft, patient voice, with which she read him bedtime stories and sang him lullabies. She had gentle gestures, graceful hands, and neat posture, a result of years of ballet in her youth. People said Charles had his fatherâs eyes, but had also been told he had his motherâs hair, and her nose, and he even had her surname, which wasnât that common. Elizabeth Lee. He liked the way that sounded, like a character in a folk song or in a storybook. Better than his fatherâs, at least. Peter Ray. Something about it didnât sound right. Maybe the conjunction of the last R in Peter and the first R in Ray, which made it an awkward phrase to pronounce. Together, though, they made a great surname. Charles liked his name very much, and the way it was double barreled âit was special, no other kid he knew had a surname like that. It had a nice ring to it. He knew that some famous people changed their name when they made it big âbut if he ever became famous, he would definitely not change his name.
âPotato chips, and popcorn...â she wrote down, tapping her lips with one finger. âHot dogs, and... What about a piĂąata?â
âYes!â
Charles laughed giddily. His mother looked down at him and grinned, happy, as always, to have made him happy. Sometimes, when he was deep in thought, her son would get serious and withdrawn, and lock himself up in his room, silently reading books stolen from his fatherâs shelves; but other times he seemed just like a normal kid again, laughing and smiling and playing around the house with his colorful crayons and his Play-Doh and his little toy soldiers. She wished he was always like that, just a normal little boy, but she guessed she should be thankful that Charles seemed like such a smartypants so early on. Her husband said that it was a sign he was meant for great things. And wasnât that what every mother wanted for her child?
âSo, what kind of birthday cake would you like?â she asked him, going back to writing down the ingredients she would need.
âChocolate cake!â he cried excitedly. âChocolate cake, and... And candy apples, too!â
His mother stopped scribbling. She turned the pencil in her hand, pressing her lips together, tensing up ever so slightly. Charles watched her, between amused and surprised. His mother was somehow still fidgety every time he mentioned apples âever since last Halloween, when he bit into a razor hid into one, and apparently felt no pain. That wasnât true. He had felt pain, but it was a funny sort of pain, different from a papercut or a scrape from falling off his bike. It was sharper, and lasted longer, and it gave him a weird sort of comfort. It was the taste of blood on his tongue, the tickle of it dripping down his chin, the thick warmth it had as he swallowed. The feeling of feeding off himself. It was pretty funny, that feeling, but his mother didnât seem to agree. She had found him in the living room, standing in front of the coffee table with his mouth full of blood, and gotten terribly scared. She had taken the apple away from him, hugged him as she barely repressed a scream, and put him on the backseat of the family car and into the hospital. Charles liked hospitals. People were kind to him there, treated him respectfully and carefully, and paid attention to him. That was the most important thing âthey paid attention to him. They were paid to do it. He knew that because his father was paid to do the same.
His mother wasnât paid to love him. She did it because she wanted to, because she saw him as the sweetest boy in the world. Now, Charles wasnât sure she was completely right about that, but he didnât care much. All he cared about was that she loved him unconditionally. She would love him even if he misbehaved, even if he bit into razor apples, even if he killed a stinky old guinea pig. Thatâs what a mother did, and that was, indeed, how she loved.
âOf course, candy apples,â she nodded. âThat would make a nice treat after the cake, donât you think?â
Charles nodded, glad his mother got over her fear for him.
