Page 75 of Florescentia

My hands were sharp . . . claw shaped. Not the best for handling humans. I might have to rethink some of my appearance.

I forgot that people were soft in every meaning of the word.

My hand hovered over the nearest wound.

Close, I willed it.

Her markings flared alight again. Glowing, hairlike threads began to stretch, pulling the skin back together to full mend.

She was lucky that she was not entirely of this world, or I was sure she might have been torn apart by something much worse than me in her escapades of the past. Those who came before her, with weaker connections to my world, had been torn from the inside out from attempting to open the doors themselves. Most couldn’t even comprehend the place I came from, not in places their minds understood—it would slowly degenerate their brains.

Millenia of attempts to create something like her, and now she was here. Cruel fate had it that she was relatively uncooperative, almost too stubborn to bargain with. Ironic, considering how she’d come to be.

With more care this time, I placed my hand on her abdomen. My thumb brushed against the skin. It felt like . . . holding something and knowing no one else had ever done so. Discovering a single anomaly and having it in your grasp. The feeling of being on the brink of a brilliant idea, and seeing it before your eyes. Those were the things I felt, for now.

She was like a rock weathered by a raging river, smooth but solid. As I moved my hand, the glow of her markings followed. Mesmerizing, like watching far-off stars wink and fade. The sensation of touch was something not experienced often, a pleasure of making yourself worldly. Having limbs that could feel was something to indulge in. To take form, I’d built a body, a nervous system, a brain, a throat. All of those things would gift me senses. I had forgotten what it was like to feel.

The sleeping Iris moved, pushing my hand away in her twilight state.

Her face was serene yet somehow still had that tautness in her brow. I supposed she schemed in her dreams as well as in her daily mischief.

Around her arms and body, pale patches of pointed shapes. Even if they looked like superficial, abstract stars, they were maps. The universe had its own language, and like in her silly book, it appeared as best it could. Unlike the Peculiars, there was no translation for that language in reality; not in this one, at least. It was past the fourth and fifth dimensions, an abstract thought.

I touched the star on her chest—my name. My real name. She would never be able to say it out loud, but it was the equivalent to a scent, a feeling, a frequency. Distinct yet not tangible.

It had been there since her first breath on this earth, and it would remain far beyond her last. It was a seal so deep it marked the soul.

No indulging. She would never leave if I entertained her whims, to distract her from her venture to my world. How I would resist was a problem for another occurrence.

For now, she was safe with a handful of luck. She could have a night of ease and possibly a day of nothing going wrong. I had to be careful that she wouldn’t spend herself before she’d fulfilled her purpose.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Nova

I woke with a sore body, my spirit lighter, my mind appeased. One could compare it to something medically induced—but better. My morning routine gained some slack, like I was drifting as slowly as my thoughts.

The sink faucet creaked and moaned as the water spluttered. I scooped pools of it with my hands, drowning my face. The water shocked my tired skin to life, my eyes clearing as I wiped away the lethargy.

Even my reflection was slightly more tasteful than the phantom that had been appearing as of late. My skin glowed as the light rose from behind me, the window filtering the harshness to a diffused haze. No more darkness hanging under my eyes, no more inflammation from tears, not even a single blemish or burn from the sun. My vitiligo was whiter without redness, my natural color golden like crisp ash leaves in Implodium, the collapse of the seasonal year into colder months, when the hot air turned crisp and the foliage was set afire among deep reds and vibrant yellows.

With the washcloth, I wiped along my body. The shiver brought back the ghosts of touches. Over my clavicle, down my arm, over my abdomen. The flash of a tongue in my mind, a firm hand pressed against me. I pressed my hips against the sink, as if to stop the memories from resurfacing. There was already wetness between my thighs.

I swallowed thickly, staring at myself in the mirror. My hair tumbled over my shoulder, the curls going every which way due to not tying it up before I slept. The more I stared, the more the mess insinuated the events of last night.

Hastily, I wiped myself and threw the washcloth over the lip of the bath, yanking the plug of the sink before trudging out.

Absinthe and Tonic peeked out from the stairs, circling around my ankles with every step.

Bashfulness or regret weren’t things I’d experienced between rituals. It was always a transaction, like buying something nice for myself. This time was the opposite. I felt as if I’d had an encounter with a stranger for only an afternoon, never to be seen again.

Except I most likely would see him again, and I thought that was worse than making him disappear.

I wrapped myself in my robe, pulling it extra tight across my chest and tying a knot to finish it off. The clock in the hallway said quarter to noon.

As I reached the edge of the stairs, the phone rang from the first floor. For a moment I considered letting it ring. Once or twice. Then reluctantly my foot met the steps, and I was on my way down. The trill buzzed in my ear, echoing when it paused.

With the receiver to my ear: “Hello?”