I hadn’t caught up with Cinder recently. I didn’t even know that happened. More proof that she has been deliberately driving a wedge between us.
Lysander adjusts his glasses. “Though in hindsight, I’m not sure how much of that is because of her or because of her. . . unusual accessories.”
I don’t comment on his crude description of my friend.
He tucks his hands behind his back and bends over at the waist to smile in my face. “I’m speaking of her pierced cunt of course.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re not the first piece of art I’ve pursued, Goldie. There have been two before you, but they couldn’t appreciate the depths of my love, my passion. What good is art if it can’t be possessed, adored every day, locked away from the prying eyes of the unworthy? That’s what kings and emperors do, they enshrine their treasures, keep them close, a testament to their power and impeccable taste. I, Goldie, am no different, with a keen eye for beauty and an insatiable desire to possess it.”
Ted's stare bores into Lysander, promising bloody retribution despite his weakened state. Rage simmers beneath the surface.
“This is some toxic masculinity bullshit, Lysander,” I counter.
He ignores my comment. “At first, I thought Cinder would be that for me. The living breathing art I could keep for always, capture on film when I needed to, but then there was you. A siren in the midst. Even before your powers came alive, you’ve been a celestial beacon of light to the dusty, worthless moths attracted by your flame.”
Lysander's eyes glint with a sick and twisted affection as he says, "Remember the butterfly I left for you, Goldie? A cherished specimen from my personal collection, forever captured in its moment of perfection, much like the work of a skilled artist freezing a magnificent moment on canvas. It's a preview, my dear, a glimpse of the grandiose gallery of exquisite art I intend to build, with you as the centerpiece, forever preserved in your youthful grace and beauty, an everlasting expression of art, encased and immortalized under my watchful eye, like a rare, priceless artwork in the hallowed halls of a museum dedicated to the worship of beauty.”
Lysander’s words fill me with icy dread. My heart hammers frantically against my ribs as the terrifying reality of my situation sinks in. He’s insane, legitimately certifiably insane.
“Goldie, if I possessed you, I’d take care of you. I’d worship you. I’d love you, fully commit the way you always wanted those men to in your past.”
“You can’t possess me. I’m a person with free will.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His eyes darken, and without knowing why, I feel as if I dropped ten flights. “You’re a siren and after some digging, I learned that drinking a siren’s tears allows you to possess their heart.
“What?” This is what Red had been driving at.
“I can possess your body and soul, keep you. I’ll be the most auspicious collector with a siren, but I don’t need to tell anyone. Every time I come home I will admire and adore you like the precious rare beauty you are.”
Ted’s muscles flex and bunch as he fights the drugged haze, attempting to break free.
“I’m not crying over you, you psychotic douche nozzle. Good fucking luck drinking my tears.
He tilts his head with a soft smile that scares me. A hand drops onto Ted’s shoulder. “That’s why he’s here.”
My stomach drops.
“You care about this nobody, and I can use his flesh as a canvas of pain, a grotesque masterpiece born of anguish and suffering, until you cry your sweet compassionate tears for him. Imagine it, Goldie, a live performance of agony and despair, culminating in the creation of the most visceral art, graced by the tears of its muse. A sight for connoisseurs, a testament to my devotion and your radiant compassion.” With that he jabs the knife into Ted’s gut.
I scream. Or was that Ted?
The motion is violent but the cut is shallow. Confusion and gratitude mix for a brief moment before Lysander begins to cut through Ted’s flesh, carving a curved design.
“No, no, no,” I chant, struggling against the ropes.
“Come now, Goldie,” Lysander coos even as he jerks the knife out and I see he has cut the letter G into Ted’s stomach. “No tears for the neighbor from hell? Maybe you really do hate him after all.”
Ted groans and squirms in pain as the knife splits his skin.
I continue to chant useless pleas, begging Lysander to stop. Hot needles stab at the backs of my eyes causing them to well with tears.
“Don’t do it,” Ted commands through gritted teeth. “Don’t let him have you, Goldie.”
But his words do nothing to keep the tears from slipping over my lashes.
He carves an ‘O’ in Ted’s chest before grabbing a tiny cup and kneeling at my side.
