Page 14 of Molt

That’s the cruelty of this thing.

It lets me find her. Lets me see her. Lets me convince myself this time will be different.

Then she touches me or I touch her and everything begins again.

“August.” Her voice sounds different already. Not enough that she would notice.

I do.

I know every version of that voice. I’ve heard it laughing against my throat. Screaming my name. Begging me to stay. Begging me to die.

I’ve heard it old. Young. Hoarse. Sweet. Cruel. I’ve heard her whisper that she loves me in languages no one speaks anymore. And I’ve heard that voice coming from my own fucking mouth.

I press the cloth harder beneath my nose. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” She fires back.

Of course she isn’t.

Lenora has never been particularly good at doing what she’s told.

Some things survive even when memory doesn’t.

She places the jar back on the shelf.

Thank God.

Then she turns toward me. “Start talking.”

“No.”

Her eyebrows rise. “No?”

“No.”

“There’s a jar in your apartment containing what appears to be a piece of my body from 1897.”

“Yes.” I nod.

“You have my phone number.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I was peeling before I told anyone.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re bleeding every time it happens.”

I don’t answer. I can’t yet.

She steps closer and I step back.

Her expression changes.

There…confusion first. Then curiosity. Then insult.

She thinks I’m afraid of her.