Saturday, June 21, 2014

Just Gone.

This is part two of my novel, "What Losing You Did to Me". For part one, click here. Right now a new section of my book posts every Tuesday and Saturday.
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In the orphanage, there are three ranks. The enfants, the jeune, and the extraordinaire. We are all tested upon arrival, in the magie machine. I tested positive. This set me apart from the others, both academically and relationally. Because the gift of magie is hereditary, finding it in an orphan is extremely rare. I was one of two girls at l'orphelinat found to posses such a gift
 

I was immediately segregated. Later when I was older I was told I must have been a donation from the se separer village. The village where magie is illegal. My parents would have been forced to either leave, or give me up. I wonder what makes an entire village more important then their own daughter.

I guess I'll never find out, because as a magie user, I can never enter.

I know now that I was lonely back then, before I turned 16 and was allowed to enter the magie school. And then I met you, my best friend, my Aainn'deliemiian, and I thought I'd never be alone again.

It was the day I graduated that you told me your truename.

And the next year, on your graduation date, we were paired.

I learned about l'appariement (the pairing) my freshman year, in Introduction to Magie. Magie users are different from other humans. While all humans marry and are given in marriage, the magie “paire". It's fundamentally the same as marriage, with the rings and the vows and the never-shall-we-part, but different because after consummation we can share each others magie as freely as our own. And other things. Like knowing what you are thinking, dear Aainn, comes easily as thinking to myself. I remember the first thought of yours we shared together. You were thinking about how I'd burnt dinner. And I was thinking right back at you how sorry I was. Then we both laughed, a laugh the bubbled not only outward, but inward as well. 

The summer before we moved back East is one of my favorite summers. We had a small apartment together, and I cooked and tutored freshman while you finished up your last classes.

To say I'd never felt closer to anyone before would be an understatement. We shared everything. From laughing over cleaning toilets to shopping downtown to dreamy star-lit nights, to our first miscarriage, with me crying in the emergency room, unable to save our baby.

Can you even remember our baby? Cielen says somewhere deep inside you must remember. That you will remember. He says I should start all over again, run to you, find you, introduce myself. We both know where you are, what you are doing. I've even seen you once or twice, on the news.

But I can't just go back. I can't pretend I don't know you. Because every time I see you my knees give out and I remember the feel of your skin against mine. I remember the way your body used to wrap around me at night, like I was an anchor tethering your soul to land.

And it breaks my heart that you don't even know my name now. It breaks my heart that you don't spend every night crying out into your pillow, your whole body yearning for me as I yearn for you. Almost every day I sob myself to sleep, while you peacefully slumber, unattached, in your plush bed.

Thinking of this always reminds of of him. Him. Your grandfather. The man that destroyed us. The man who still lives. The man who thinks I don't remember, either.

Perhaps if I break him, you'll come back.

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Click here for part three.
 
All my writing can be viewed here. Picture in this post is from here. Used with permission. 
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