GOD, IT'S BRUTAL OUT HERE !

her fists are dripping in sweat and blood; salt and sweetness. below her is the only boy she’s ever loved, who knows no better resolution to their problems than an open palm. it isn’t the first time he’s done this—hell, it isn’t even the tenth. she stopped keeping score of how much they could hurt one another a long time ago. she still doesn’t know why she’s let it happen. maybe it’s the cruel imitation of love that drives her to the edge of sanity. maybe she’s only clinging to a strange and twisted sense of belonging she felt in his arms. either way, one of them isn’t making it out of this field alive.

the many faces of love and anger obfuscate on his features beneath the pale moonlight. the night is sweltering, and maisie can feel her flesh become feverish the longer she hovers above him, waiting for his counterattack. but he doesn’t stand, nor does he even flinch or breathe. she thinks that this is it. he’s gone. she’s free. but then, he sucks in a struggled breath, reanimating as he writhes on the ground in a flailing attempt at gathering himself. she stumbles backwards, tripping over her ankles and falling backwards onto the dirt. he coughs up a clot of blood and she flinches. she doesn’t know what better thing there is to do besides run. it’s cowardly, but it’s either that or she dies, and she thinks she still has some stomach left for life inside her. so, she turns on her heel and leaves him to choke. hopefully, by the time the sun stretches across the horizon, his suffering will come to an end. 

that’s more than she can say for her own.

-

when she sneaks in through the kitchen door, the house is eerily quiet for nine o’clock. typically, her twin would be indulging his mother in a brady bunch marathon or cooking them up a post-dinner snack. instead, all the lights are off, the air is unmoving, but there’s at least a plate wrapped in tin foil waiting for her on the isle. she swallows hard, the sensation making her throat pulsate. she couldn’t be further from hungry, yet still knows if she doesn’t eat it, she’ll receive an earful in the morning about her well-being. in truth, she’s always been a ravenous being, so her refusing food would be entirely out of character and very suspicious on her part. she approaches the plate and unwraps it, finding two pieces of baked chicken and a modest amount of mashed potatoes coupled with cold peas, all coated in thick brown gravy. 

she sighs and nukes it in the microwave. as she waits the three minutes, she leans on her elbows and watches the quiet world outside the window over the sink. in her mind’s eye, she conjures up an image of herself and her brother on the swing set as children. times were much simpler then. it was before they discovered what love or desire meant, what weight it possessed in their fucked up society. before wesley. before she killed him, or even had the thought of killing him.

the worst part of it was that she couldn’t justify it. although he had hurt her far more than she ever had him, she was at least self-aware enough to know better than to say he deserved death. you’d think, at this point, she’d be fretting how she was going to excuse his disappearance and subsequent demise. but wesley has made lots of enemies in kansas city. some would say it was only inevitable until his comeuppance would steal his right to life. there are plenty of people in town who would die themselves to be in her shoes; these beat up converse that had splatters of blood and mud on them, that walked the six miles home in a darkness only interrupted by the occasional streetlight. 

the microwave beeps. she snaps out of her daydream and tosses it open, sliding the plate out and sitting at the isle to consume it with almost painful haste. she chews fast, her jaw aching, but she’s no stranger to pain. once it’s all gone, she leaves the plate in the sink and tiptoes upstairs. 

the bathroom is the nearest door, which she slips inside with a quietude she inherited from her mother. she kicks off her shoes and begins undressing once cranking the bathtub faucet on. after washing her shoes in the sink and leaving them by the door, her pulpy form lowers into the hot water and wades just below the surface. she stares up at the ceiling and ponders on how she’s gotten here. 

she thinks back to the day she met wesley: it was five years ago, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-one. he had long since graduated and she had skipped a year ahead of her brother, going from sophomore year to senior year over the course of one summer. she caught his eye while breezing through her math homework underneath an oak tree in the park. she’d have studied with friends like everyone else, but she didn’t have any. he approached her, flashed her a smile that she now recalls as being grimy, and asked what she was writing. 

formulas, was all she said in return. he asked what kind. math kinds. then, he laughed. this was a year before she received her cochlear implant, so all she could see was his mouth form an ‘o’ shape and his shoulders shaking in amusement. she smiled then, finding it charming.

what’s your name? he kept prying.

margaret, she replied. normally, she didn’t give out her nickname. it was sacred, made for those who she deemed worthy enough, and she had just met him, though immediately she felt herself compelled to continue speaking to him. 

old timey. i like it, he said. in that moment, she softened, lowering her pencil and inviting him to sit beside her. can i call you garet?

she laughed. a wholehearted, bright, filled belly kind of laugh. he laughed, too. they sat there and it felt like the world revolved around them, even if just for a little while.

a tear slips down her cheek as the memory disintegrates. once upon a time, things were good. he was her saving grace, the boy she’d end up marrying, but back then she couldn’t fathom the thought of bearing children. she still can’t. what if they’re like me? she always thinks, despite the fact her own mother had her and her brother and made them a decent life. it’s different with her, though. she isn’t as softhearted or understanding. she’s roughly hewn, the stitching on her heart bursting with every beat. she would never subject children to her own untamed madness. it’d be crueler than what she had done to wesley.

she washes off the viscera stuck to her body. when she emerges from the tub, she dresses in one of her brother’s sweaters and a pair of striped shorts. she decides when she leaves the bathroom that she can’t sleep alone. she pads across the hallway and inches open spencer’s bedroom door. smiling faintly, she peels away his comforter and slides into the bed beside him. he rustles, but doesn’t wake. she ducks her head into his back and inhales the sweet scent of fabric softener on his shirt. it’s the one thing that keeps her from sobbing.

-

in the morning, she’s awoken by sunlight bleaching the room. she rolls over onto her back and opens her eyes slowly. when the world focuses, she notices spencer looming above her. she starts, not expecting his presence. she rubs her eyes and pushes herself up on her elbows. he offers her his cochlear implants and, still groggy, she tries to refuse them. 

his hands lift as he signs, it’s important. put them on.

giving a sigh, she finally accepts the implants and fastens them on both sides of her head. as she adjusts to the white noise, her hazel eyes drift up to where she can focus on his lips to read. he seems disheveled and restless, which is strange, because she could feel him snoring against her as they slept.

“what is it?” she asks, her throat struggling to force words out. she wasn’t aware of how worn it’d feel—then, she remembers how wesley clutched onto it with brute force and siphoned all the breath from her lungs. she stills at the thought and pushes it away for the moment.

“i got a letter,” spencer replies. she doesn’t seem impressed by this, offering raised brows so he’ll elaborate. “it’s from dad.”

maisie doesn’t know what she should say at first. “dad?” she echoes. he nods. “we don’t have a dad.”

“sure we do. he sent us a letter.”

“that doesn’t mean anything. it could be from anyone,” she’s quick to deny. without returning her gaze to his lips, she shuffles out of bed and smoothes her wrinkled sweatshirt. “probably just some stupid prank.”

spencer fishes inside his pocket and unearths a crumpled up envelope, offering it to her. “see for yourself.”

she gives an exasperated sigh and reluctantly accepts the envelope. thumbing it open, she slides the letter out and reads what it says. it’s written in immaculate cursive, something that makes her frown. who writes like that in the latter half of the twentieth century?

to spencer and margaret,

i know this letter must come as a great surprise to you both. but i feel i must unburden myself. after almost twenty-four years, i have begun seeking your presence out of the wholehearted desire to know my own creations. inclosed in this letter is my current whereabouts, including my address and the appropriate funds required to reach me. you should know me by name, which i am certain your mother has not uttered since her leaving. i am lucien jensen, which makes you both jensens as well, but i will not press upon either of you to accept my family name until we’ve acquainted each other properly.

i do hope i can see you soon. i have waited many years for this. i leave for europe at summer’s end, so you have ample time to gather your belongings and find me.

i eagerly await your arrival.

respectfully, lucien jensen

“this is bullshit, spencer,” maisie denies as her eyes fall upon the stranger’s name. “why would he wait until now to reach out? he’s had decades to do it. what’s so special about now?”

spencer shrugs in return. “how am i supposed to know? but i do think we should go.”

“why?” she asks, confusion imbued in her voice. “i’d think you of all people would care the least about what he has to say.”

“because we deserve answers, mai. don’t you think so? aren’t you, i dunno, curious?”

maisie frowns. “not really.”

“well, you should be. and i’m going, which means you are, too.”

“i’m not going,” she immediately refuses. she shoves the letter into his chest and moves so she can leave his room, but before she can open the door, he clutches onto her wrist and she can feel the familiar pangs of panic emanate from deep within her chest. she rips her arm away and stares up at him with wide eyes—like she’s some kind of frightened animal.

spencer seems perplexed by her response. “what’s up with you? you’re acting weird, you slept in my bed last night, you probably didn’t even eat the food i left out. is everything okay?”

“i ate. everything is fine.” she deadpans. “i’m not going, okay? i don’t care who he is or what he has to say. and if you do go, you’d just be betraying ma. she left him for a reason. we need to respect that.”

he softens as he fully observes her tense form. it’s very unlike her, which she is painfully aware of, but she tries brushing it off anyway. she leaves him behind in his room and tries to shake their conversation from her mind. by the time she’s in her own room and collapsed onto her bed, she knows it’s all she’ll be thinking of for the rest of the day.

-

it’s two o’clock in the morning when she notices the hall light pouring underneath the crack in her door. she hasn’t been able to sleep, far too consumed by thoughts of wesley and her father. she worries for the moment they’ll find his corpse in the cornfield and what assumptions they’ll make offhand from it. before she can succumb to fear, a shadow eclipses the light and she sits up further against her pillows. heaving out a sigh, she feels far too curious to let it go without investigating.

she slowly turns her doorknob and opens her door. she sees spencer, dressed in jeans and a sweater, with a duffel bag hauled over his shoulder and car keys clutched tight in his hand.

“spencer?” she speaks up, which startles him. “what are you doing?”

“jesus, mai,” he breathes. “where do you think i’m going?”

maisie blinks. “i don’t know. that’s why i asked.”

“i’m going to find dad,” he finally answers her, staring her down in a way that makes her skin crawl. “was hoping you’d just stay asleep so i could go without a fight.”

she presses her lips together. she’s surprised he’s actually gathered the guts to follow through with his hastily made plan. he’s never been the courageous type, leaving all that to her, who’s been fearless from the moment she was born. instead of arguing, she steps forward and looks him over. his shoulders are squared and his posture is fixed. he seems determined. unshakeable.

“i won’t fight you,” she says. her voice is soft, unlike how she normally speaks at an increased volume.

“well, good,” he clears his throat awkwardly and gives her a once over. the lack of sleep is evident in her sunken in eyes and peaked face. “... mai?”

“yeah?”

“i really wish you were coming with me.”

maisie’s brows knit together at his words. slowly, her chin pivots over her shoulder, and she gazes inside her bedroom. it’s dark, minus the night light that cuts through the night and shines warmly in the corner. she knows exactly what compels her to face him again and respond the way she does, and it has everything to do with the dead boy in the cornfield.

“give me ten minutes.”

-

the car ride to maine consumes twenty-eight hours of their lives. maisie gazes out the passenger side window almost the entire trip, admiring the scenery, which shifts from rolling hills and endless plains to dense forests and, eventually, the ocean. she’s never seen such an expanse of water before, always accustomed to the lakes of missouri. it’s gorgeous and incomprehensibly large. she imagines herself on a beach, the sand between her toes, the sunlight warming her bones. she doesn’t know why coming along feels so right—maybe because she and spencer have done everything together as a pair from when they were in utero, or maybe she hopes she can find peace in a place far from home; far from her mistakes and regrets, far from the love that almost killed her.

when they reach a bed and breakfast that spencer thinks looks reputable enough from the outside, she’s exhausted, despite the fact she had remained in the passenger seat the whole ride. he pays for a week long stay, which empties their pockets by half. he’s lucky that she has her own cash, accumulated from birthdays and christmases that she’s clutched onto with an iron fist since receiving it. she hates spending money, knowing that her family could use it on a rainy day at any time, and it seems they need it now more than ever.

they settle into their suite and spencer is eager to leave again as soon as he drops his duffel bag. while he searches for the letter where he can scratch down the address given on a napkin, maisie turns on the television and tunes into an episode of her favorite show, dungeons & dragons.

“you sure you don’t wanna come with?” spencer asks as he folds the napkin and tucks it inside his back pocket. maisie’s eyes flicker toward him and she nods. “okay. i’ll be back soon.”

“actually,” she says. “i think i’m gonna go down to the beach. can you pick me up there after?”

spencer’s brows lift, seeming surprised that she wants to leave the room without him. “uh, yeah. yeah, i can. you wanna go… alone?”

“i do. i’m capable of it, i think.”

“then okay. i’ll pick you up in a couple hours. just—be safe, okay?”

maisie offers him a smile. “you, too.”

“always,” he shoots her a crooked grin, then moves so he can quickly leave their room.

when he’s gone, she sits through one more episode before she reaches inside her backpack and brings out her sketchbook. might as well capture the beauty of this place, lest they have to escape at any point. she tugs on her sneakers and adorns a cardigan, one that has her mother’s initials sewn into the tag, then follows spencer’s path out of the bed and breakfast.

the beach is only a five minute walk away. she settles on a bench and gazes out at the ocean. she likes how it shimmers in the glow of the sun above; how everyone there seems so at peace. it takes her a while to find inspiration, what with so many people coming and going. it isn’t until she sees a boy sit on a bench about thirty feet from her that her heart jumps inside her throat and pulses.

as she sketches him she thinks about nothing except for how pretty he looks. it’s been a while since she’s felt such desire. she stopped looking at wesley that way after the first time he hit her. she’s focused on his features, repeatedly glancing up at him—until he returns the stare, and it feels like the tide coming in after spending ages on the scorching sand.

he walks over. she stills. wesley’s beaten body flashes in her mind, but then, miraculously, the visual of it surrounded by wildflowers refreshes her spirit, and she feels ready again.

basics ;

full name. lukas spencer. nickname(s). luke, lukey, lulu. age. nineteen. gender. cis male. sexuality. homosexual homoromantic ( with heavy comphet ). date of birth. 18th of sun's dusk. zodiac. the atronach.

physical ;

hair. medium brown, some blond highlights in the sun. eyes. violet with blue specks. brown hair. skin. pale white ; has a scar cutting down the left side of his face from being sliced open with a dagger at age fourteen. physicality. lean ; practices archery and does frequent upper body exercises to maintain his form. mentality. medium tempered. has some anger issues inherited from both his parents, and has autism like his mother, but he does his best to remain level as much as he can. habits. scratching, humming ( very out of tune ), spinning objects in his hands, tapping his foot when anxious.

personality ;

basics ;

full name. jane waverly. nickname(s). janey, jay. age. twenty - one. gender. demi female. sexuality. bisexual biromantic. date of birth. 11th of midyear. zodiac. the steed.

physical ;

hair. light brown ; cut right below her chin and left in waves. eyes. azure blue. skin. very pale ; burns easily in the sun and often wears hoods to hide from it. physicality. skinny ; build like a stick but still maintains some poise, mostly when it comes to climbing/scaling tall objects. mentality. hot tempered. much like her parents, jane has a lot of built up anger for seemingly no reason at all. she snaps easily and has a stubbornness that remains unmatched by anyone else in asla nalore. habits. clenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms, humming when bored.

personality ;

basics ;

full name. isabeau vyolet starborn. nickname(s). isy, beau. age. twenty - four. gender. cis female. sexuality. homosexual homoromantic. date of birth. 3rd of second seed. zodiac. the steed.

physical ;

hair. dark brown ; left in luscious mocha waves that fall to her elbows. eyes. honey brown. skin. sun - kissed ; lighter in tone but tans easily in the summertime and covered in freckles from her cheekbones to her arms. physicality. curvy ; has a full figure and keeps in shape by the occasional sword fighting lesson despite not being too interested in it. mentality. even tempered. much like her mother, beau is pure of heart and rarely is in a bad mood, though some criticize how oblivious she can be of evil at times. habits. pacing when nervous, throwing her hands around while speaking, stuttering.

personality ;