Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (14 page)

She was standing in the same place, wearing the same dress, her
head bowed, weeping into her hands. The bruises on her face were even darker, a
violent shade of dark and angry. For a moment, the urge to step outside, to
talk to her, to ask her
why
, raced through his blood stronger than the
vodka. He pulled the door open, took a half-step outside. She didn’t flinch,
didn’t move.

His hand tightened on the door knob, and he retreated back into
the house. “I can’t help you,” he whispered.

§

Shari was usually waiting at the door when he dropped Megan
off; this time the door was shut and the windows curtained. He held Megan’s
hand as they climbed the porch steps. Shari yanked the door open wide as he
lifted his hand to knock, her face caught up in a scowl.

“You’re late,” she said.

“We got caught in traffic, sorry.”

Shari’s mouth pressed into a thin line; her eyes turned steely.
“Oh, I forgot, Megan can’t see you this weekend. She’s going on a camping trip
to Rock Creek Park with school.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“No, Mommy, I want to go with Daddy, not on the stupid trip,
remember?”

“I understand that, honey, but I already told them you were
going. You’ll see Daddy the next weekend.”

“But I don’t want to go on the
trip. Please, please, Mommy, let me go with Daddy. We’re going to the big zoo
to see the baby pandas.”

When Shari spoke again, her
voice was hard. “The zoo will still be there the next weekend. Why don’t you go
in the house now?”

“No.” Megan tugged Alec’s hand. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Daddy, tell Mommy not to make me go on the trip, please. I want to come with
you instead. Please, Daddy, please.”

“Mommy’s right, the zoo will still be there next weekend, and so
will the baby pandas.” He turned away and walked back to his car. Megan would
be fine. Kids cried all the time when they didn’t get what they wanted.

§

Another night. Another room filled with the weight of
silence. Outside, a light rain tapped against the windows, and thunder boomed
in the distance. The living room turned to shadows and grey, and, eventually,
he closed his eyes and let sleep tug him down.

He woke with a jolt, one hand pressed to his chest, the echo of thunder
still in his ears. Rain pummeled the windows, obscuring everything beyond.
Lightning split the sky. The lamp flickered, another boom of thunder raged in
the night, and the light went out.

With his arms outstretched, he felt his way into the kitchen,
fumbling in a drawer for candles and matches. He had one candle lit when he
glanced out the window as another slash of lightning stripped away the dark.
Oblivious to the storm, the woman was standing in the backyard, weeping.

He scrubbed his face with his hands. Was she in such a bad
situation that his yard in a storm was preferable? What kind of nightmare was
she trying to escape from, and why didn’t she just run away for good?

Before he could change his mind, he opened the kitchen door. A
gust of wind tugged it from his hand and shoved it back against the wall. He
staggered out into the rain, arms over his head, feet slipping on the wet
grass.

She didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Her
entire arm was a study in violence, not only bruising but deep gashes that
openly bled their red. Neither rain nor wind touched her hair, her dress. She
was a small statue of calm amid the chaos, save for her weeping.

When he drew close, she turned slowly. Her left eye was
blackened, her right cheek inflamed. A split in her lower lip gaped open,
revealing the pink meat below. Her chin was raw as if someone had dragged her
down a concrete step. Scratches and cuts, some deep, some superficial, marred
the skin of her chest visible above the neckline of her dress. And still, she
wept.

He let out a ragged breath. In his mind, he saw Megan’s face
streaked with tears, saw himself turning away, felt the sharp sting of guilt,
of failure.

“Please, come inside,” he shouted against the storm still
drenching his clothes and hair. “You can’t stay outside in this. I promise I
won’t hurt you.”

She didn’t move.

“But are you ready?” she said softly, her voice clear even
through the storm’s anger.

He shook his head. “For what?”

She touched his chest; in a split-second, the storm no longer
touched him. He could still hear the wind, the rain, the thunder, but all were
muffled as if from a great distance away. Water dripped from his arms and legs
down onto the dry grass beneath his feet.

Inside his chest, he felt something tug and twist. She smiled and
took his hand. Her skin was cool, but not cold. So close, her wounds were even
more horrific, yet she smelled not of sweat and hurt, but flowers and time.
Tears continued to slip from her eyes; as soon as one fell, another took its
place, trailing a shimmering line down her cheek.

“What happened to you?” he said. “Why were you outside in the
storm? Why have you been standing out here?”

She pressed a finger to his lips, and the cool kiss of her skin
against his felt strange,
other
, as if she was of some elsewhere,
trapped in thiswhere in a way Alec knew he’d never understand.

He reached out a hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Why
do you keep crying?”

She smiled. “I feel like I’m drowning,” she said. “Like my chest
is filled with dandelion fluff and I can’t breathe through the wasted wishes.”

Her voice carried a lilt, a melody.

“I don’t understand,” Alec said, unable to take his eyes away
from hers.

“See?” She coughed, gently, delicately, and held out her hand.
There, on the unlined skin of her palm, a tiny speck of white. Maybe dust,
maybe his imagination.

“What is it?”

She folded her fingers over; when she released them, the white
had vanished. “A wish.”

“For what?”

“For happiness and joy instead of heartache and grief, for a smile
instead of a tear.”

“I don’t understand,” he said again, shaking his head. “Who,
what
,
are you?”

She smiled. “I am the Algea, the three, Lupe and Ania and Achus,
the daughters of Eris, the spirit of suffering of body and mind. In other
lands, I have been named the Dolores, Nedolya, Cihuacoatl, but my name is of no
matter. I know no torment though I carry it in my veins; I know no heartache
though I taste it in my tears. I am grief and sorrow and ache, condemned to
feel everything in my command, now and always.” She gave a small smile. “But I
think it’s time. I think you’re ready.”

“For what?”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, one quick touch
that tasted of sunshine after a long rain. “For this,” she whispered against
his mouth. “To feel again. To feel everything.”

He felt a pulling in his chest, a twinge in the back of his
throat, a sense of shattering at the edges and deep below. A rush of anger
flowed through his veins, pushing aside the chrysalis of numbness he’d wrapped
around himself. He saw Shari’s hard eyes, the document stating when he could
and couldn’t see his daughter, the lawyer’s bill. The anger turned to rage,
covering him in a wave of red, blood-dark and reeking.

The bruises on the woman’s skin darkened, the cuts widened and wept
ruby pearls. Runnels of red poured down her arms, changing from a flow to a
trickle to nothing at all. His fault, he knew this was his fault. He tried to
swallow the anger, but it was too big, too heavy to hold inside, and in spite
of the blood and the bruises, she was still smiling.

“You have to feel,” she whispered.

The twinge in his throat became a sob, then another. He thought
of the lonely nights in this strange, quiet house, the moments he’d miss
because he wasn’t there, Megan’s sorrow and his inability to take it away.
Tears poured from his eyes, and he cupped the back of his head in his palms.
Too much, it was too much. He let out a groan, wiped his face with angry swipes
of his hands, and she touched his arm.

“Let it come,” she said. “Let it out.”

Like a tsunami, anger and hurt and loss and despair washed over
him. The arguments, the harsh words, the emptiness, the changes. He shrieked
into his palms even as the world turned to a blur beyond his tears; his heart
broke a thousand times; his rage twisted a thousand razor-sharp coils in his
gut.

A sound like tearing paper filled the air as cracks appeared in
her skin. He wanted to reach for her, to find some way to save her, but the
storm inside held him immobile, captive. Pieces of her began to fall, revealing
a grey shadow behind them, and as each piece fell, it faded into nothing before
it reached the ground.

Not decay, but disintegration, dissolution, until what stood in
front of him was merely shimmering darkness in the shape of a woman; a liquid
veil of night. And in the space of an eyeblink, that, too, was gone.

He exhaled long and low. Took his hands away. Hiccupped a last
sob. He felt…empty but not numb, empty as if he’d been stripped of hidden
chains. On the grass below, a tiny scrap of blue fabric, and atop that, one
small, perfect sphere of water. He sank to his knees, reached out a fingertip,
and when he touched it to his tongue, he tasted the salt of a tear. The fabric
warmed the skin of his palm for a moment, then it melted away, leaving behind a
dandelion seed. He closed his fingers tight and made a wish.

The sounds of the night slowly trickled back in—a breeze through
branches, the drip of water from the eaves, the rhythmic clicking of crickets.
The air was awash with the echo of rain, a smell of blank pages, of beginnings,
and when Alec opened his hand, the seed, like the storm outside and in, was
gone.

She was not a monster, nor did Perseus cut off her head.
The whole Athena and shield bit? Bullshit. Perseus was a self-absorbed fool who
barely had the strength to lift a sword over his shoulder, let alone swing it
hard enough to sever sinew and bone.

As far as the rest of her story, the snakes and stone might be
true, but not in the way you think. It’s always easy to paint a villain, harder
to scrape below the gilt to find the real.

§

Medi pushes away from her desk, rubbing her eyes.
Translating ancient Greek is usually a piece of cake, but for this project,
she’s working off photographs, not the actual documents themselves, and the
faded text is nearly illegible.

She knows she should keep working, but she’d rather drink wine
and watch a movie. She’ll deal with the rest of the translation later.

In the kitchen, her mouth twists. Her last bottle of wine is
almost empty. It’s not necessary, but wants never are. She checks the mirror.
There aren’t quite enough wrinkles for her liking, but they should be enough.

When she unwraps the heavy towel from her head, the serpents
whisper. She does her best to ignore them and puts on an ugly floral scarf and
her sunglasses. Never mind that the sky is a shade of dusky purple.

Outside, she steps into the sound of bass-heavy music pumping
from a car speaker and the stink of exhaust. She hates it all—the noise, the
desperation—but the thought of living in a place where she can’t be just
another anonymous body is terrifying.

Especially for her.

Although the sidewalks are nearly deserted, she keeps her gaze
down and her steps brisk. The autumn air is cool against her cheeks. Despite
the wrinkles and sunglasses, her heart races the entire way.

The man at the liquor store takes her money without a word. He
gave up trying to engage her in conversation a long time ago.

On her way back to her apartment, the screech of tires fills the
air. A door opens and closes behind her. Then she hears the steady thump of
shoes on pavement. She glances over her shoulder, and when she turns back, a
man is standing close. Too close. She tries to dodge out of the way, hits his
arm instead, and stumbles. He grabs for her, her sunglasses tilt, and she
doesn’t look away fast enough. Keeping her guard up is hard, even after all her
years of practice.

But he isn’t looking at her face, her eyes. Relief flows through
her body. She nudges her glasses back into their proper position and says,
“Thank you.”

“No problem. Be careful,
okay?” he says in a solicitous manner.

Her heart is still pounding heavy in her chest when she slams and
locks her front door. Half a glass of wine downed in two gulps eases it
somewhat. She feels the weight of the serpents hidden inside the spiral curls
of her hair. She muffles their words with a towel again.

No mortal can understand what they say. Athena granted that mercy
at least.

§

How many times do you have to hear something before you
believe it to be true?

Not nearly as many as you think.

§

Every Sunday morning, Medi wakes early, regardless of how
late she stayed up the night before. She wraps a towel around her head and
prays, but not to the gods and goddesses of her youth. They were never friends.
Never a comfort.

She prays for forgiveness, for compassion, for safety. She
suspects she would’ve had an answer by now if anyone was listening.

Then she takes a glass vial from atop her chest of drawers. The
liquid inside shimmers a pale pink. When she removes the stopper, the room
fills with the smell of gardenias, but it’s a lie. The elixir tastes like
rotten fruit and spoiled meat.

Fitting, she thinks.

There are only a few drops left in this bottle, but she only
needs one, and the results last for a week, give or take a few days.

The elixir is cool on her tongue. For a long moment, there is
nothing but the sound of her breathing and the muted whispers from beneath the
towel. Then a slow pain burns beneath her skin, rippling out like a sheet
shaken over a bed. The first time, she writhed on the floor until it was
finished, but she’s used to it now. Pain is part of being a woman.