Page 40 of Ruby
I recall when he told me I was his to watch and protect; is this why? The fact that I might be the very reason why he lost his wings?
He turns away from me and I catch the green and cobalt blue mixed into his golden-yellow skin and the way the sun dances over him.
He takes in a long breath, looking at me like reminding himself of something as his body shifts from that broken slant to… someone with purpose. It changes every slant of his features and my mouth drops open a bit and that persistent wetness between my legs turns into a throb.
This time I don’t run away from it, though it still makes me feel uncomfortable. Instead, I just keep staring.
I am jealous of how he still looks so good, standing proud in front of me somehow, looking even more majestic as if to spite the horrible acts visited on him by those monsters. I take a long, hard look at my protector, even though he is as injured as he is, and all I see is his strength and patience.
“Should eat,” he says to me in a low song, trailing off when he notices that I am still openly staring at him.
“What happen?” he asks when I don’t move my eyes away quick enough.
I freeze, my mouth moving but no song coming out. Even if we were speaking English, or Russian, I would have no words to describe what is happening right now.
It leaves him plenty of time to dart out an arm and catch another “meal.”
I almost forgot that his idea of breakfast and mine don’t exactly coincide, especially after he tried to feed me that lizard. He can’t possibly know that humans cannot ingest food raw, especially not reptiles.
I don’t know exactly when we evolutionarily deviated from consuming reptiles, but I would prefer not to be a cavewoman on this fine morning.
Dammit, stop it, I tell my galloping mind.
He doesn’t know enough about me to know what I can or cannot eat. It’s made worse by the fact that I haven’t told him anything about me, not even my name. I thought I was better than mymother, who preferred only to offer her name and contact info to people she deemed worthy of it but I realize now that I am no different.
The Bitch is just a version of the Witch, and that can’t be who I decide to be.
“My name,” I croak out, the song barely recognizable.
I reach out a hand and put my palm in his much larger hands, then let them wander out of curiosity. His skin, although oddly textured, is incredibly soft to the touch, and the feathers sticking out of the patterns are soft and not as sharp as they look. The dark-blue blotches are velvety.
He extends his arms to me as if in offering and I want to wrap my hands around them but I stop myself. “My name Anichka Ivanov.”
It’s the first time in over fifteen years that I’ve heard my full name called out by anyone other than my mother. It’s Ani to those I let close to me and Annie Falls to whatever fans I ever had, in a lifetime that’s so long gone, it almost feels like a dream to have lived it.
“If short you like, Ani,” I add, shooting him a small smile.
He gets my joke immediately and makes a small rumbling sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh. I laugh with him until the wholesome moment starts to make me feel queasy and I take my hand away from his and try to look away.
I hate myself for the reaction, but don’t know how to get back to laughing.
The Bitch doesn’t laugh like that, the ugly voice chides me.
Which mask laughs like that? I shift through them, but none of them match. I gulp, both thrilled by the possibility, and terrified, that it might be my own laugh. Part of my long lost identity.
I try to find something to fiddle with nervously instead of standing there awkwardly but there is nothing.
Is this the real me? A more awkward and shy person than I realized?
There has never been space for that.
Since my whole life involved pretending to be who I’m not, I’m more surprised by the fact that when the cameras are off, I’m a puddle of anxiety. The only other time I’ve come close to a realization like this was the time I purchased a fidget ring after seeing an ad in passing.
It was a silly, rebellious idea I had since my mother believed more in therapists than in fancy gimmicks made to take money from the middle class. It’s funnier that a parasite like her called herself middle class but I’m in no position to judge her. I got the ring, and it was the first time I realized that I could deal with stage fright on my own.
My thumb seeks it out, but nothing is there.
Yet another tether is gone. Those things stole it from me, taking one more trophy in a cabinet of tricks designed to break me.
