The idea that Winnie might care about me sends my head spinning and the monster inside me clawing to be free.
“So we’re going to set intentions for your space, and your life.” Winnie places her hands on her knees, and I unclench my fists and copy her. But then she places her hands over mine, and I’m back to fantasies so monstrous that she’d personally light my funeral pyre if she could see them. “What do you want for your life?”
I want you.
I want your name on my lips again as I drive you wild.
I want to taste you.Allof you.
I want to make you mine.
Winnie squeezes my fingers when I don’t say anything. “Remember when I told you that you were a perfectionist?”
I rememberevery word you speak.
“It may seem odd, but often, living in mess is about control,” Winnie says. “You don’t have to tell me, but can you think of something traumatic that happened to you before you started accumulating stuff?”
I died on the battlefield and woke up in a castle in Germany as a monster.
I was burned at the stake by villagers I saved.
I was tortured by a witch hunter.
I was left to hang from a tree for five days and nights.
I was buried alive and had to wait for the wood of my coffin to rot before I dug my way out.
As the memories flash unbidden in my mind, my fangs push into the flesh of my lip. I can’t open my mouth and risk her seeing them, so I nod.
“The traumatic thing makes you feel like the world is scary and out of your control. We can’t stop people from hurting us.” Her voice cracks. “But your castle and your art are things you can control. They make you feel good, and there’s no risk of being hurt. So you build a physical barrier between yourself and the outside world, like the walls of a castle.”
How she can spend mere days with me and yet know my heart?
I nod again. I don’t trust myself to do anything else.
Winnie knits her fingers in mine, and I find myself swallowing back a well of emotion. “Trauma never goes away, Alaric. I still live with mine. The memories come up often, unexpectedly, at the worst possible times. Some people become workaholics, or turn to alcohol, to hide from their trauma. Some, like my ex, Patrick, become gym nuts because looking after your body can feel like being in control. And some people build their castle walls higher.
“But control is anillusion. All that stuff won’t keep you safe. Only you can do that.You are enough.” Her eyes glisten as she says this, and I’m no longer certain if she’s talking to me or herself. “You are enough, Alaric. You can’t hide away here forever. You’re too special. You deserve a life outside of Black Crag. No matter how high you build those castle walls, someone will always get in and knock them down.”
Oh Winnie,if only you knew …
“I think that your intention should be about vulnerability. You have to practise being vulnerable again and trust that even if you do get hurt, you will survive.”
Her fingers are so soft in mine, so fragile. I’m not the one who is vulnerable right now. Her blood pulses at her throat, and I’m so hungry, soferalfor her that I drive my fangs into my lip so I don’t do something monstrous.
I taste my blood and it does nothing to sate my bone-deepneed.
“I want …” I close my eyes, because looking at the care in her eyes is making it worse. “To be vulnerable.”
“Good. That’s your intention. Every time you feel yourself being pulled under by one of your passions, or you can’t muster the strength to use the system I’m creating for you, look at yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I am safe to be vulnerable,’ and that should help, okay?” She tilts her head to the side. “And if it doesn’t help, you can text me.”
I can text her.
Because she won’t be here.
Because she’s leaving.
“I don’t text,” I grind out, sucking my lip to stop the bleeding. I force myself to my feet and jerk towards the kiln. “I do not enjoy writing with my thumbs.”
